Captain from Castile (19 page)

closed the door. At first it seemed merely another phase of the dream; but as Pedro's brain struggled back to consciousness, he recognized the huge bare arms, bull neck, and leather jerkin of a turnkey Havmg lost count of time, he gathered that the twenty-four hours had passed and that he was about to be haled again before the tribunal. He lay staring at the broad back of the man, trying to fight down a rising fit of madness...

The fellow stood motionless awhile. Then, puttmg down the lantern together with some other objects, he turned around. He was a monster of a man; Pedro noticed the bulging arms and thicket of black hair emerging above the neck of the jerkin. He moved slowly toward the bunk°his misshapen shadow hovering on the vault above.

"Are you awake?"

Certainly it was a dream or a trick of Pedro's crazed mind. As the man squatted down to seat himself on the edge of the bunk, his facein spite of the dimness became familiar.

"Yes."

"Then compaiiero, don't you know me?

The breath stuck in Pedro's throat. "Juan Garcia!"

"Who else?" rumbled the voice. "Did you think I would leave you in this hell-pot while I could raise a hand? You're the best eyeful I've had since the Indies." 

"Juan Garcia?" repeated Pedro. "How—?"

"Money." The other gave a profound nod. "Money's the key to most locks. Besides, there's Manuel Perez. He wouldn't be able to face his sister again if he didn't do what he could. She's been stirring things up, I can tell you. But first," Garcia's big chest heaved "You've got to forgive me. I've got something on my heart." And when Pedro could only stare, "God curse me for a rat! When things went like they did with Madrecita—or perhaps you don't know?"

"Yes," Pedro nodded.

"At first I thought you had taken the money and played nie tor a fool. Out of my head, d'you see-half-crazy. Then I heard what had happened to you, and I knew better. I'm sorry." Garcia laid a huge hand on Pedro's shoulder. 

"It's nothing," murmured the other. He explamed how he had been in the cathedral square. "His holy, hellish Reverence played us both for fools." 

Garcia sat opening and clenching his hands. "Perhaps someday-

You know why I killed her? You understand, don't you; "Yes," Pedro said.

"She blessed me," said Garcia, "before I—"

He drew his hand across his eyes. Then, fumbling in the pocket of his jerkin, he brought out a key with which he unlocked Pedro's manacles. "Keep them on," he cautioned. "Others may drop in here."

Walking over to the door, he returned with what looked like a piece of sacking.

"A sword and dagger," he said, unwrapping them. "We'll make a break for it just before the hour of the tribunal. Manuel Perez will let us out by the postern. It's a thin chance, but we'll take it together."

Pedro's heart, which had begun hammering, suddenly slackened.

"My father and mother?"

"Yes, they'll come too. That's the trouble. I knew you wouldn't budge without them. I've seen Don Francisco. We'll head for the sierra, then for Almeria, then for Italy. He says if we can reach there we'll be safe on account of your mother's kindred. Hernan Soler vows he can manage it." Garcia spat. "But I'm not fooling myself. It's a thin chance."

"Hernan Soler?"

"Yes. It's Catana's doing. He's a galdn of hers." Garcia stood listening. "I'll push on now," he said uneasily. "The jailer's a friend of Manuel's, and he's had his pay; but there wasn't cash enough for everybody. They may wonder about the new hand."

"How can you get away with it?"

"Maybe I can't. But, for one thing, these prison lads aren't looking for Juan Garcia in the Castle; for another, I stick to Manuel and stay where he tells me."

"But if you're spotted?"

Garcia picked up the lantern and shrugged. "Why then, adios! They won't take me alive. I've got a knife."

"Thanks," Pedro said. "I can't tell you—"

"No need," said Garcia. "I'm not forgetting what you did for me, nor what it's cost you. We'll stand together—here or anywhere. Hasta la noche!"

"Hasta la noche!" Pedro answered.

Not until the other had gone out, locking the door behind him, did de Vargas first notice the streak of sunlight slanting from east to west through the funnel mouth of the embrasure, and realize that he had still long hours to wait.

But the whole quality of time had changed. Instead of despair, hope and with it suspense almost equally tormenting. What if Garcia were recognized? What if someone entered to inspect his chains and found them unlocked? What if the hour of the tribunal were put forward?

A mere trifle could snap the thread of luck upon which everything depended.

He forced himself to think only of escaping from the Castle. As to the long leagues over the mountains to Almeria, the difficulty of fast travel for an elderly man and woman, the constant danger of being overtaken, the risk of relying on a cutthroat like Soler, the chance of securing a ship on the coast, he kept his mind closed. It would be almost enough, he thought, to breathe free air again and to die free.

At any rate, this tremendous difference existed between now and before Garcia's visit—the knife. Whatever happened, no one would take him back to the tribunal. His deliverance from that lay concealed in the straw at his side.

And something else there was too: in the cold blackness of his mind, the flickering of a tiny flame, a new warmth such as his careless youth had not yet known. The meaning of friendship dawned upon him, devotion of man to man, deep as the love of woman, though different. Born in the darkness of the prison, it kindled a new faith which might in time partially replace what had been lost. "A friend 1" he exulted.

Hours dragged by. Once in the course of the day, a turnkey entered with food and water, while Pedro, knife in hand, tense as the spring of a steel trap, pretended to sleep.

"Wake up," said the man, "if you want any grub before the rats get it." But he did not inspect the chains.

When he was gone, de Vargas forced himself to eat in order to keep his strength up. He also walked back and forth for a while and flexed his limbs to avoid stiffness.

The ray of light followed its appointed arc, rested once more on the despairing scrawl of the unknown prisoner. "Miserere — '' Pedro glanced at it. Superstitiously perhaps, or because of a new hope in him, he even repeated it as night fell.

Then, for the first time, he slipped off his chains; slung the baldric, to which the sword was attached, over his shoulder; fastened the knife to his belt; and, lastly, stretched out again on the bunk, with the loose irons draped over him as if they were still in place.

At least several hours remained; but his suspense increased sharply as the minutes passed, increased to an almost unendurable tension. Had something happened to Garcia? Surely it was time. It seemed to him w that he had lain stretched out there for an eternity.

In the end, when he was on the verge of panic, the key grated in the lock, the outer bar slid back, and the door opened.

"Thank God!" he began, but the words died out.

It was not Garcia's burly figure on the threshold; the silhouette formed by a lantern in the corridor behind stood tall and thin. As it entered the cell, followed by the lantern bearer, Pedro found himself staring up at the white face of Diego de Silva.

"Put down the light, fellow. Close the door and wait outside. After talking with the old cock, I want a word with the cockerel."

The turnkey—it was the same who had brought the food earlier— knuckled his forehead. "Yes, Your Worship. It lacks a half hour until Their Reverences meet. I'll wait, Your Worship."

So, hope was over. Garcia had failed. Despair surged back again, but not only despair. Eclipsing it, rose the lust of hatred. As Pedro stared up at de Silva, the thirst of it tingled in his mouth; his pulses beat a paean of thanksgiving. He knew at least that de Silva would not leave the place alive. By God, yes—there was a God, and He had led the victim to the trap.

Meanwhile, de Silva, gazing down, pinched his chin. He studied the other's grim face under the thatch of bronze-colored hair, the wide, unswerving eyes, and in part read them perfectly.

Then he laughed. "Hate me, eh? Well, young Pedro, that won't last, I promise you. By the time we finish, I'll change that glare of yours into something else. Ever seen a well-whipped spaniel grovel?"

Strangely Pedro felt no hurry. Like an epicure inhaling rare wine, he enjoyed the sensation of putting off the too short moment of killing. It was almost a pleasure to scrutinize de Silva's pointed ears, the affected wisp of hair along his cheek, the bantering, conceited eyes, the foppery of his lace collar.

"Perhaps you wonder why I trouble wath the de Vargas family," he wxnt on. "They're of no consequence and hardly deserve notice. But I'll tell you. It's a policy of mine to remove whoever stands in my way, whoever offends me, even if it's someone of no importance. I never make an exception. If a young lout, Pedro de Vargas for example, strikes one of my servants, he has to pay for it. If a pretentious old fool like Francisco de Vargas prevents me from rounding out my estate in spite of generous offers, he has to be eliminated. You see, it gets around in the end that Diego de Silva does not let himself be trifled with. And soon people who are of importance make way for him. After that his path through life is smooth and undisturbed. That's the reason for my interest in you, young Pedro."

At another time Pedro would have felt the calculated sting of this speech, but his hatred was too complete for any further anger. In the

calm of his present assurance, de Silva's words even amused him, and to the other's surprise he smiled.

"When you eliminate people, senor, you are careful not to risk your own skin—which is probably wise. Tell me some more about your policies."

It was not the effect that de Silva looked for. The coolness and the smile visibly nettled him, but he kept his drawl.

"If you mean that I do not give swashbucklers the satisfaction of a duel, you are quite right. Why should I give them satisfaction at all? My object is simply to remove them as a warning to others. Perhaps in the end even your dullness will learn that my method is thorough."

Pedro nodded. He wanted to spin the moment out as long as possible. "Yes, cahallero, I admit your method is thorough—I'm not quite so dull as that—thorough as your dishonor, if possible." He smiled again and added, "If possible."

But he had gone too far. De Silva's temper snapped. The brute behind his mockery broke through, though he managed a short laugh.

"Well, hijo, dirty-tongued brats must be taught politeness one way or another. Get up when a gentleman speaks. You crow louder than the old carrion, your father."

Reaching out, he laid hold of Pedro's manacles with the evident purpose of jerking him up, but staggered back with the irons in his hands. And at the same instant de Vargas leaped, his grip closing on the other's throat.

Back they reeled to the opposite wall, de Silva wrenching at the hands that worked their way into his neck. More powerful than he looked, he was fighting for his life and kept Pedro at bay for a moment with arms and knees. A moment—long enough suddenly with a desperate twist to break loose. De Vargas stood between him and the door. He sprang for it, but was thrust back; and in the same instant he drew sword and dagger.

"Socorro!" he yelled. "Guard! You, outside there!"

Pedro had most to fear from that quarter. But no one answered. Probably the fellow had strolled off. There might be time.

''Socorro."

The two swords met, grinding hilt against hilt, and de Silva leaped back from the dagger in Pedro's left hand.

"What about satisfaction now, whoreson?" jeered de Vargas. "Where's your policy and method?"

He moved slowly forward, one step after another, his eyes watchful. He had no doubt of the result. He knew that he could kill the man by sheer fury—if only he had time. That was the trouble. A minute, two minutes before the guard returned. He must strike fast.

His sword leaped at de Silva's face, avoided the parry in quarte, flicked to sixte and ripped through the muscles of the right hand. As the sword slithered down, Pedro stepped on it. De Silva shrank back, for a moment out of reach against the rear wall of the cell. Kicking the fallen sword to one side, de Vargas resumed his slow advance. Now at the moment of success, he took no chances, even with an enemy who had no weapon but a poniard.

His opponent saw a face with hollow cheeks and above it a cluster of hair, red at the tips where the light shone through. He saw a pair of green eyes, unblinking as a cat's. And terror such as he would not have felt in open day on a fair field descended on him, terror of the burning thrust which in a moment would put an end to him. An end—

He gave a sudden gasp, his eyes on the point of the sword. "For God's sake ..."

Within easy reach, Pedro repeated his first attack, a feint and cut, this time to de Silva's left hand, which dropped the dagger.

"One by one," he said.

De Silva raised his bleeding hands in front of his breast, his mouth working, his eyes on the door. Pedro skewered his velvet cap with its jeweled buckle on his sword's point and flicked it off.

"Bareheaded before death, senor."

"No," screamed de Silva—the words came in a babble—"you wouldn't kill an unarmed man, de Vargas; you wouldn't murder me. I was joking only. You'll go free from the tribunal."

"You have a moment left," Pedro answered. "Spend it thinking of the girl who was killed last night."

The other sank to his knees. "Mercy!"

To his relief, the dreadful point sank a trifle as if hesitating. He stared at it, hypnotized.

"Well, if you grovel—" sounded the voice above him.

But de Silva was beyond shame. "I sinned," he quavered.

"You would make amends perhaps? Secure our release? Pay a suitable fine? Make public apology?"

"Yes," breathed the man. It was well that he could not see the madness in Pedro's eyes nor the face of Mercedes de Vargas whom the boy was staring at. "Yes, everything, anything."