Captain from Castile (12 page)

He could only answer, "Because I love you."

The benevolent gate once more opened under the stress of his emotion, but this time he did not close it. Antonia Hernandez need not have worried: he and Luisa were learning fast without a tutor.

Amazing that a girl like her should forget decorum at such a moment. Instead of showing alarm or displeasure that the gate remained open when propriety demanded bars between them, she moved closer, so that they stood face to face.

"But you don't know me. How can you be sure?"

Approaching footsteps sounded in the lane, a murmur of voices.

"Ay Maria!" she whispered. "Quick! Come inside—they'll see you." He shut the gate softly behind him, and they stood close together within the wall, while the footsteps passed. Her nearness, the fragrance of her dress, the silence as they waited, set his pulses throbbing. Her mantilla, slipping a little, showed the sparkle of her jeweled hair net in the moonlight and the wave of her hair.

When the passers-by were gone, he kneeled suddenly and raised her hand to his lips.

On a low stone bench within the bay of lawn and to one side of the gate, she listened while he poured himself out in the high-flown style of Andalusian lovers. The words flowed of themselves, urgent, vibrant. She listened, but was conscious too of a strange fermentation in her own mind, as if a new order of life and thought were beginning. It struck her that until now she had never possessed anything of her own; that she had been like a doll in the hands of other people. But now the doll in the silver brocade and jeweled hair net was coming to life, was taking possession of herself.

He told her about France, the invitation from Bayard. He would not have her think of him as a local stay-at-home. He would make himself worthy to be her cavalier,

"When do you go?" she asked, trying to keep the droop out of her voice.

"In autumn, Madonna." He added gallantly, "With your leave."

She counted rapidly. Two months of evenings—evenings like this.

"My father says that Monseigneur de Bayard loves tournaments," he went on. "The thought of you will give me strength. If I win, the credit and prize will be yours."

"They say that French ladies are beautiful," she put in lightly, though all at once she hated the thought of them.

"Perhaps." He had become an adept in the last ten minutes. "How shall I be able to tell? You have made me blind to them."

Half-seated on the bench, he slipped again to one knee.

"Will you give me a token. Madonna, some favor to wear? It would be my saint's relic and bring me fortune. Forgive me for asking. I know that it is too much to ask."

Even Antonia Hernandez could have found nothing to improve in his manner. The hour had changed him as well as Luisa; he was not the same youth who had entered the lane.

Luisa felt caught up and swept along by a current too swift for coquetries and delays. Somehow his earnestness did not permit them.

Without hesitation, she gave him her handkerchief, a tiny scrap of cambric edged with Venetian lace. It was perfumed with rose water and had the softness of a rose, as he pressed it to his lips.

"I wish I had something better to give you, Pedro de Vargas."

Better? If he had received the Golden Fleece at the hands of the King, it would not have meant half so much. His brain reeled with happiness and pride. She had accepted him, she permitted him to call himself hers. Now there was no difficulty on earth so arduous that he could not overcome it for her; no prize so lofty that he could not win it for her. The hot blood pounded in his ears; his imagination soared like a released falcon. To express himself was impossible. When he spoke, his voice seemed strange to him.

"I will give my life for you. I would give my soul for you."

A discreet cough sounded beyond the laurels, and he regained his feet as the Seiiora Hernandez reappeared.

"Tomorrow night?" he whispered. "Every night, I'll be in the lane."

He could barely hear the answer. ''Si, cuando puedo."

He bowed to Antonia.

"Vaya!" she said archly. "Is it the custom of gentlemen to enter gates and to forget the proper distance?"

He appeared startled. "It is enchantment, senora. I did not know that I had passed the gate."

"Not bad!" she approved. "I see that you're a charming liar." And to Luisa, "We must go in, Primacita. There are lights moving in the palace. Your father must have returned."

Still dazed, still half-incredulous of his happiness, Pedro wandered back through the town, heedless of the cobblestones and turnings of the streets. The years stretched before him in a haze of gold, a limitless horizon. With love inspiring him, he could do everything—everything!

Not far from his house, a dark figure detached itself from a doorway, and at once he was on guard.

"Pedro de Vargas?" hissed a voice.

"Yes."

"I am Manuel Perez, Gatana's brother—he of the prison."

It took an instant's effort to remember.

"Yes?"

"You saved my sister from de Silva's men. I am not one who forgets. I have been here for an hour, hoping to head you off."

What was the fellow driving at?

"Head me off? "

"You must not go to the Casa de Vargas. It's a trap. They're waiting for you."

Clearly the man was crazy. "Who's waiting for me?"

"Those of the Holy Office. They have taken your father, mother, and sister to the Castle. With my own eyes, I saw them brought in. I heard the talk about you. Then I got away, though it would cost my head—"

"The Castle? The Holy Office?"

"Yes. Get out to the Rosario. Catana will help. You must take to the mountains. It's your only chance."

Kill

In the hot darkness, Pedro stared at the almost invisible face close to him. His mind, suddenly numb, refused to act.

After a long moment, he stammered: "I'm sorry, friend. I don't understand. What did you say about the Holy Office?"

Manuel Perez repeated the incredible news. Even on a second hearing, it filtered but slowly into Pedro's consciousness. His father, Francisco de Vargas, arrested! One of the town's leading citizens, a famous man, dragged to prison! Pedro's mother and sister taken! The family house seized and already occupied by strangers, who were waiting to lay hands on Pedro himself! At a single blast, the solid world of his entire experience seemed to be blown to fragments.

Perez gripped his shoulder. "Your Worship has no time to lose. You can get down by the east wall. Come on. Hurry! I'm due at the Castle."

Docilely, as if in a trance, Pedro suffered himself to be led on for a short distance, until at last the complete realization of what had happened struck him and he shook off the other's grasp.

"By God, no!"

''Que pasa?"

Pedro clenched his fists. The monstrous absurdity of the thing beggared language.

''Why?" he demanded. ''Why? What reason? They must have given a reason. What did they say, in the name of God?"

"Say?" echoed Perez. "Is it for the Santa Casa to give an account of itself? Senor, no! It isn't in the habit of answering questions; it asks them." And with a touch of gallows humor he added, "I wouldn't advise Your Worship to wait for the question. Come on."

De Vargas squared himself. The thought of his family behind the walls of the prison shut out every other consideration.

"I'm going to the Alcalde, to the Bishop. They're Father's friends. They don't know about this. It's a mistake. They'll act at once . . ."

'"Don't be a fool," put in Perez, forgetting rank. "What mistake? His Honor, the Alcalde, was at the Castle when Don Francisco and the ladies were brought in. Do you think the Bishop could raise a finger against the will of the Santa Casa? I tell you once more, senorito, you have no time to lose."

His call last night on Ignacio de Lora crossed Pedro's mind. Could that have anything to do with it? Had his connection with the ill-omened business of Garcia brought him and his family under suspicion? Was the Inquisitor taking that way to cover up the bribe he had accepted? The Holy Inquisition! They were impious, ugly thoughts which two days ago would have been impossible.

"I'll see Father Ignacio himself."

"Oh?" said Perez. "In that case, I'm a fool for my pains."

The dry note in the man's voice spoke volumes. Pedro stood shifting from one foot to another in a sweat of indecision. To whom could he turn? Among his father's friends, who would be able to take his part if the highest officials of Jaen were excluded? Had he not better head for the mountains, as Perez counseled, until influence could be brought to bear and public sentiment force a release? Perhaps, indeed, the arrest was only a mistake.

But the walls of the Castle were thick, and even more insuperable was the fear of the Inquisition. Greater men than Francisco de Vargas —much greater—had disappeared from the friendly world into the cold shadow of the Holy Office, and no one had dared to ask too many questions. The King, perhaps, or a grandee—

The Marquis de Carvajal!

On Pedro's anguish, the name flashed like a beacon. Here was the one man in Jaen who might help. He was not an official, but his word had immense weight. He stood at the summit of the social scale in the district. His power would impress even the Inquisitor. Best of all, he had served with Francisco de Vargas in Italy and called him by his first name. That he was Luisa's father did not occur to Pedro at the moment. He was simply the natural refuge in this case.

"The Marquis de Carvajal!" Pedro exclaimed aloud. "I'll go to him.''

Perez drew back a step; he said nothing for a moment. Then hesitantly, "Yes, the Marquis—he's a big nobleman. If Your Worship has

credit with him, perhaps— That's out of my line. Perhaps big noblemen stand by their friends against the Santa Casa. Your Worship knows best. I've got to hustle, or it's a twisted neck for me. Senor Cavalier, go with God."

He was on the point of hurrying off when Pedro caught his arm.

"Thanks, friend. I won't forget your kindness."

"Forget or remember," said the man gruffly. "I did it for Gatana."

"You'll tell my parents how matters stand?"

"I'll do that. Adios."

A great emptiness descended on Pedro when the other was gone. The fellow had at least represented human helpfulness and good will. Now de Vargas found himself in an almost unbearable loneliness, like a swimmer at sea, left to his single efforts.

With a heavy heart, although painfully alert, he retraced his way uphill through the narrow, winding streets toward the Garvajal Palace. The familiar town had suddenly become alien and hostile. Every passer-by, fumbling towards him in the darkness, every beggar loitering under the overhang of a house, was a possible enemy. The scurr)' of rats in the gutter, the racing of scavenger dogs along the alleyways, the hunting scream of a cat, was enough to set his pulses racing.

As he approached the palace, his first confidence in turning to the Marquis faded. What if he could not obtain an audience at this hour? What if the great man had retired? Pedro knew him only formally. He was not old or important enough to insist on seeing him. But if that were impossible, where could he hide for the night?

The palace garden occurred to him as a possibility—if the gate was still unlocked. No one would think of searching for him there. And with that came the thought of his recent happiness. A half hour ago he had everything, now nothing.

He emerged at last on the quiet square in front of the palace. It was shaded from the moonlight by a few plane trees. Rounding them, he stood looking up at the stone facade, massive and formidable, its occasional windows covered with thick bars like the front of a prison. It had nothing in common with the garden behind it but seemed as detached from that place of enchantment as the Gastle itself. Not a light showed; the building was wrapped in a ponderous, austere silence.

Desperation goading him, Pedro at length summoned courage enough to approach the main door and lift the heavy ring that served as knocker. The crash of it broke the stillness of the night like a musket shot. It seemed to him that it must rouse the neighborhood, and he had the sense of an echo resounding in the hollowness of the palace. But

nothing stirred. It took still more courage, after waiting a long while, to ply the knocker a second time.

Continued silence. Then, without warning, a sliding panel of the door jerked open, and he could make out dimly a patch of face and two eyes through the grating.

"Caramha!'' hissed a voice. "Who are you and what do you want? Vaya una hora de venir! Can't you see that lights are out?"

"It's a matter of life and death," returned Pedro recklessly. "I must see His Grace."

''Whose life and death?"

"A friend of the Marquis—my father, Francisco de Vargas."

The porter gave an unconvinced gnint. ''Cdspita! His Magnificence has retired."

"Just the same, inform him. He'll not thank you if you don't."

Slowly, doubtfully, the panel closed, and Pedro remained in the moonlit stillness. He did not know whether the man intended to carry his message or not. Somewhere an owl shrilled; a watchman from one of the near-by streets called the hour. Pedro stood with his heart thumping. In due time, the watchman would reach the square, would want to know who it was in front of the Marquis's door. No doubt orders had been sent out for Pedro's arrest. Standing in the glare of the moon, he was perfectly visible.

The monotonous call came nearer.

Then unexpectedly bolts were drawn, and a section of the door opened.

"All right," grumbled a voice. "Come in, but I warn you that His Grace does not care to be disturbed for trifles."

A dim lamp, held shoulder-high, lighted the servant's bearded features and showed an expanse of stone walls. Pedro followed, as the man led the way through a cavernous hall and then to the right up a curving staircase to the second floor. Here a confusion of corridors branched out.

"You're Pedro de Vargas, eh?" said the porter, turning into one of these. "Don Francisco has only one son."

"Yes, Pedro de Vargas."