Captain from Castile (13 page)

He had an impression that a door on the left closed suddenly, as if it had been slightly ajar, and it seemed to him that he heard a low exclamation. But he was too absorbed by the approaching interview to think twice of it.

His guide stopped finally at the end of the corridor, parted some

hangings, led him across an antechamber, and announced his name to the candlelit twilight of a large room. Then he withdrew.

It was a moment before Pedro could distinguish the huge four-poster bedstead in an alcove facing him at the end of the apartment. Some pieces of richly carved furniture, a vague portrait, the oaken mass of a wardrobe against the wall, were details barely noticed as compared with the bust of the man propped against pillows within the curtains of the bed and visible in the flare of a couple of tall candles.

The Marquis had drawn a brocaded robe over his shoulders, but he had not yet adjusted his nightcap, which remained at an angle. His eyes, still blinking at the light, his square beard and hooked nose, gave him a solemn, owl-like expression. He did not, however, permit the unexpected to roughen the perfection of his manners.

"Draw near, young sir," he invited. And when Pedro stopped with a low bow and flutter of excuses outside the alcove, "No—here, if you please. The son of Francisco de Vargas has always the bedside privilege with me. That's better."

Pedro entered the alcove, bowed low again, and repeated his apologies. Th€ Marquis gave a slight wave of the hand.

"Do not mention it. I was not asleep, and even if I had been, I am always at your father's service. There is no one whom I more affectionately admire. what is the matter that concerns him? I gathered from my servant that all was not well. It is an honor that you turn to me; it will be thrice an honor if I am privileged to help. Speak quite frankly and be at your ease."

Relief at this gracious welcome made Pedro's eyes smart. For the first time in the last hour, life seemed normal. He was once more the son of an eminent gentleman, and no longer helpless or friendless.

As form required, he sank to one knee, though the Marquis made a gesture of protest.

"Vuestra Merced is too good, too generous! God reward Your Grace! When my father hears of Your Grace's kindness, he will express his thanks better than I can. Vuestra Merced, the trouble is this."

Confidently, he now told what had happened and poured forth his bewilderment. Naturally the Marquis, knowing his father, would realize that this arrest was all a preposterous blunder. No one was a more devoted son of the Church than Francisco de Vargas—a fact of public knowledge. That he should be accused of heresy made neither rhyme nor reason. But it was not his father who concerned Pedro at the moment so much as Doiia Maria and his sister. The shock to them might be serious, especially to a young girl like Mercedes, who had always

been frail. He did not know what to do, implored the Marquis's counsel.

The light of the candles turned one side of Pedro's hair to red flame, and Carvajal, who was an amateur of art, reflected that a portrait painter would have been pleased with the effect—that Venetian fellow, Titian, for example, whose work he had admired in Italy. Aesthetically interested, he looked more owl-like and benevolent than ever. When Pedro had finished his plea, he half-expected the warmhearted nobleman to rise from bed, summon his lackeys to dress him, and set out at once to effect the release of the prisoners, or at any rate to make his influence felt.

There was a long pause, during which Carvajal fingered his beard.

"My dear boy," he said at last, "believe me, you have my complete sympathy. I am more than touched by your distress. It grieves me too that Don Francisco and Dona Maria, together with your charming sister, should be temporarily detained. Tomorrow I have pressing affairs, but next day it will really give me pleasure to make inquiries. Meanwhile, as you say, it is probably a mistake which will clear itself in a short time."

He sipped his words as if they were honey.

"Vuestra Merced — '' Pedro gasped.

Carvajal flowed on. "If it were a case before the civil courts, I might be more helpful; I might even be able to do something. But the Holy Office is a different matter. What right has a layman to intervene in spiritual affairs? As good Catholics, we must have utter confidence in our Mother, the Church, and render her complete obedience at whatever personal sacrifice." The Marquis raised a forefimger in admonition. "The Holy Office is charged with defending the purity of the Faith; it must protect the fold from taint. Perhaps something in your parents' lives—"

"Your Grace knows them! How could there be anything!"

Carvajal shook his head. "Ah, my son, you are perhaps blinded by natural affection. I say there may be something in your parents' lives or in yours, for that matter, or even in mine, of which we are unconscious, but which would not escape the keen eyes of our Holy Mother. In that case, we must bare our backs to the scourge and humbly beg for correction to the salvation of our souls. Yes, my son, even if that correction meant the destruction of our base and fleshly bodies."

It was plain that the Marquis enjoyed his own sermon. He spoke in a solemn cadence and turned his eyes up at the crucifix which hung facing him between the curtains at the end of the bed.

"Thus, with complete assurance, we may entrust this affair to the

saintly Inquisitor of Jaen, Father Ignacio de Lora, a man who beatifies our city with his presence."

Mocking echoes stirred in Pedro's mind: "Twenty, thirty, forty, fifty," accompanied by the clink of gold. He felt a growing tautness along the spine.

"If there is no guilt," concluded the Marquis, "your parents will go free. If there has been sin, you should rejoice at the expiation. Far better a temporal than an eternal punishment; far better—"

"How many go free?" Pedro demanded. "Does Your Grace know of any, guilty or not—"

''That, my son," interrupted Carvajal with the utmost gentleness, "is a rebellious, nay, an impious question. It reflects on the integrity of the Church. No doubt everyone, if closely examined, is guilt)'- of sin and deserves some punishment. The reverend fathers are too conscious of their mission not to do all they can for the souls of those who come under their notice. But it has happened, I believe, that more than one has been discharged free from blame. I hope that this will be true of your parents."

Pedro's hope had turned to lead, but a growing ferment of anger sustained him. He got to his feet.

"Your Grace's advice then—?"

"Is to rely on God, my dear boy, and on the justice of the Holy Office. I shall do all in my power, all in my power."

De Vargas controlled himself, though his voice thickened. "What would Vuestra Merced suggest for tonight? Our house has been occupied. If I turn to an inn, I'll be arrested. I have no place to go."

In view of the fine promises, he could at least expect that the Marquis would offer him shelter for the night. Because of that, he had to keep his temper.

"No place to go?" Carvajal repeated. "My son, you have one place above all to go. You should proceed at once to the Castle and give yourself up. It will tend to show your innocence; it will be an act of filial lovalty to your father. You should support your parents in their hour of trial."

Undoubtedly there was weight to this advice. Perhaps, indeed, surrender was the best course. But an alarm began sounding in Pedro's head. Give himself up? Deprive his family of the only voice left to take their part outside of prison? He wanted to think that over.

"It's a late hour," he hesitated. "Would Your Grace generously allow me to remain here until morning? I shall then decide—" But at the look of astonishment on Garvajal's face, his words faded out.

"Young man, what you ask is impossible. It would expose me to the gravest charges. You should know that anyone who shelters a person sought by the Inquisition is considered equally guilty. Allow me to point out that it is indelicate to make a request which I must, of course, refuse."

Indelicate! A smother of heat submerged de Vargas. He thought of poor Manuel Perez, who had risked his neck to save him, while this stuffed effigy of a grandee, his father's avowed friend, declined the most trifling help! But he mastered himself.

"I shall then take my leave, Your Grace. Vuestra Merced has been exceedingly kind."

The irony made no dent on the Marquis's self-satisfaction.

"You are quite welcome. It is a pleasure to advise the son of an old friend. If there is any service I can render, please call on me. And present my affectionate regards to Don Francisco and Dofia Maria. No doubt they will soon be at liberty. I take it you are now going to the Castle—the best plan."

Pedro did not enlighten him. He felt that another minute of that honeyed voice would lead to murder. With a stiff bow and a half-smothered buenas noches, he turned out of the alcove.

"Buenos noches, my dear boy," answered the Marquis, raising his eyebrows at such abruptness. "If you will wait in the anteroom, a servant will attend you to the door. Farewell."

He pulled the tassel of a bellrope languidly; a remote tinkle sounded. Then, being drowsy, he snuffed the bedside candles himself and relaxed on the pillows. He was conscious of having graciously fulfilled the duties of his position.

But Pedro did not wait in the anteroom. He could find his own way downstairs, por Dios; and with long strides, jerky from anger, he followed the dark corridor towards the entrance hall. If he had been less headlong, he might have heard a light step hurrying in front of him, as if someone had left the anteroom just as he entered it; but he had nearly reached the hall landing when he was startled by a touch on his sleeve.

"Sefior de Vargas," whispered a voice. "Senor, one moment."

Even in the darkness, he recognized Luisa de Garvajal and the perfume of her dress.

She led him across the threshold of a room to the side, which was vaguely lighted by a single taper. Evidently the place, a sort of antechamber belonging to a guest suite, was not used at present.

"I had been saying good night to my father when you came," she whispered. "I heard you give your name to the servant."

She still wore the dress of brocaded silver and the jeweled net over her hair, but to Pedro it seemed a very long time since they had met in the garden. His anger with the Marquis was suddenly forgotten.

"I had to know why you were here," she went on; "I listened in the anteroom. Ay Dios, how awful! What are you going to do?"

"I don't know," he answered dully.

Footsteps approached along the corridor. She pushed the door to and stood with fixed eyes and one hand at her throat as the lackey answered his master's bell. Then, a minute later, the servant, discovering that the light in the Marquis's room was out, returned grumbling along the gallery.

She drew a breath when he had passed. What if he had caught the glimmer of the candle in her hand! The new self which had awakened in the garden, the new pulse beat of independence, struggled against the habit of her doll-like training. What if anyone should find out that she was here in a room with Pedro de Vargas! She turned faint at the thought.

"Are you going to give yourself up?" she breathed.

He shrugged his shoulders. "Perhaps."

She would have liked to go back to her father's room, throw herself on her knees, entreat him for Pedro. He could help—she knew that; he could at least contrive to send Pedro out of Jaen. But that her father should learn that there was anything between her and young de Vargas was an idea too terrifying to contemplate. Besides, prudence told her that her suit would be useless: it would bring down the Marquis's wrath upon her, and WouId make matters worse for Pedro himself.

"Perhaps," he repeated. "But I'll wait till morning."

It crossed her mind that she could hide him here; there were several rooms in the palace where no one went, where he would be safe. But again the risk appalled her. Better not—

She wrung her hands. "I'll pray for you."

He was deeply moved. It did not occur to him that she could help him othenA'ise. The thought of hJmself in the prayers of Luisa de

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Carvajal was enough—more than enough—a dizz)' honor that restored a measure of confidence.

"If you will do that, I need nothing else."

It seemed to her that she heard footsteps again. Perhaps the doorman, waiting below, had grown suspicious, would climb the stairs to investigate.

"I'll pray for you always. You must go now."

"Yes, of course."

His green eyes were burning. She could almost feel the heat of them on her upturned face. . . . Surely there were footsteps.

"You must go . . . Hurry!"

"Listen, querida mia, this trouble will pass. I shall fight my way through. Then I'll come back. I'll come back with my head up. It's a vow. Remember that—and pray for me."

"I'll always remember," she whispered. "HurnM I'm afraid . . ."

Opening the door, he disappeared into the darkness of the hall. She heard the click of his heels on the stairs beyond and the faint rattle of his sword.

Sinking to her knees, she besought the Virgin for him, praying a long time with hot, aching eyes and a lump in her throat. But somehow it brought her no comfort; she had no conviction that her prayer reached beyond the oaken beams of the ceiling. It was easy to pray.

"After all," she thought weakly, "I'm only a girl. It would have been improper to have done more. It was improper anyway. Maria! If anyone knew that I had spoken with him here! Salve Regina! Queen of Heaven, protect Pedro de Vargas!"

Again the prayer dropped like a pellet of lead.

After the doorman, none too graciously, had seen him out, Pedro walked across to the shadow of the plane trees and stood pondering. His glimpse of Luisa had the effect of a cordial; it heated his blood and raised his spirits. But it had not changed the thorny difficulties of his position; he had still to find shelter for the night, and he had still to decide what he would do after that. Should he give himself up, or should he follow Manuel Perez's advice and make for the sierra? What he most wanted now was time to think.