Captain from Castile (21 page)

Far up the road Don Francisco heard the onset, and his heart yearned Avithin him. At that moment his common sense and his loyalty to Dona Maria underwent their hardest test.—"Santiago y Vargas! —The cry floated back above the clash of swords and trampling of horses. His lower Up crept out, he half reined up; but then, closmg his ears, he spurred doggedly ahead, while his wife breathed prayers to the saints.— "Santiago y Vargasl"—It was as if all his past life were calling to him calling him back. He groaned and struck the pommel of the saddle with his clenched fist, but rode on.

Though trained in the tilt yard, it was Pedro's first experience of an actual melee, and he Bamed with excitement. He would have given anything now for five minutes on Campeador, whose weight and spirit would have stemmed the tide more effectively than could his present sorry mount. But even so, he fared well enough. Two of the three troopers in front went down before the first unexpected charge, their bodies tangled between the horses' feet. Others closed in, jamming the road between the cliff and the opposite bank, hampered by the narrowness of the defile, a confusion and hubbub. Pedro cut and thrust, hardly knowing what he did. Perhaps his war cry accomplished more than his efforts. It was a famous shout known to all of the assailants, who gathered that Don Francisco himself confronted them. One horse, losing his footing, went down, and another piled on top. The road was temporarily blocked. The onrush wavered.

"Back!" roared Garcia. "Back, before they rally! Grasping Pedro's bridle rein, he wheeled him into flight up the road at as hot a pace as spurs could wring from the horses At the same instant, Soler's men drew off and joined them. They had covered two hundred yards before the pursuit was resumed. , , ,

"Here'" cried one of Soler's men three hundred yards further on. "To the right'" And leading down a low bank, he disappeared in a knot of pines. Pell-mell at first, they raced along the trail between the trees, then gradually slackened to a halt.

This was the critical point. Would the troopers turn from the main road after them? Or would they suspect the strategy and perhaps split their force? From what he could gather, Pedro reckoned them at fifty men. Twenty-five of these on the heels of Don Francisco would be enough.

But the chase was too hot; no one paused on the road. Shouts and then the thudding of many hoofs on the pine needles showed that the enemy had taken the bait. Pedro whooped to encourage them.

"Give them a glimpse of us," he said.

They had more than a glimpse. At that moment a man on a tall charger, riding well ahead of his fellows, burst from the trees and crashed into de Vargas's horse. Both animals went down in a flurry of lashing legs. Pinned for an instant and half-dazed, Pedro somehow gained his feet. Then consciousness blew into tatters: sensations, glimpses, blind spots. He was in the middle of a whirlpool, shunted here and there. He was flung against a riderless horse, but did not remember scrambling into the saddle. Something hit him on the head, glanced to his shoulder, but he did not feel the pain of it. Someone yelled, "Here's a sword," and thrust it into his hand. He spurred forward without knowing in what direction, shouting, slashing. The horse reared, bolted; branches whipped his face. He was out of the woods, oflf the trail, plunging down a dizzy hill, jumping rocks, gullies, fallen timber, hauling vainly against the bit. On, on. A rocky plain stretched before him, ghost-white under the moon. Distant peaks. The ground spun past. Then all at once his horse dropped; he plunged over its head and rolled a yard or more, his cuirass clashing against the stones.

After a while, breath and awareness crept back.

Sitting up, he found that he could move his limbs, though his left arm throbbed from a wound in the shoulder. Several paces off lay the dead horse. A gaping cut on the flank showed what had maddened him.

Unsteadily Pedro got to his feet, sheathed the sword which he had kept hold of by instinct, and looked about him. For the moment he had lost his sense of direction and could not decide where he was. But a sound in the distance brought him back to more urgent things. It came from the quarter out of which he had been riding. It was the click of horseshoes on loose stones. The pursuit was evidently still on.

Looking about for a hiding place, he could see none. The stony ground near him undulated far and wide without a break. Even if he could have hidden himself, the body of the horse outstretched and black against the moonlit ground was a telltale signal to anyone searching for him.

He stood gazing in the direction of the sound and at length caught sight of a dark figure jogging towards him across the glimmering expanse of the mesa. The rider was veering to the left and had apparently not seen him. What first struck Pedro was the man's size and topheaviness as compared with his horse, which looked like a pony carrying a mountain. Then, coming nearer, the stranger stopped all at once and let out a shattering bellow.

"Viva! Por Dios, que no es verdad!"

*'Garcia!"

The big man slipped off his horse, as if he could make more speed on his own feet, and came lumbering towards Pedro, pulling his nag by the bridle. His heavy arms closed around the other in a bear's hug; he kissed him on both cheeks.

"Never did I expect to see thee again," he boomed—"not this side of Satan! It was the devil of a thing to leave a friend like that and ride off to hell on your own account! What ailed you?"

Pedro explained about the horse.

"Never admit it," said Garcia. "Those bastards from the Castle will be talking about de Vargas's ride down that slope till their death day— and you tell me it was nothing but a runaway horse! That's how people get a reputation!" He broke off. "Hurt?"

Pedro was clasping his shoulder, which throbbed from Garcia's hug. "Only a cut. What happened to the others? You did some riding yourself to follow me."

Garcia shook his head. "No, I came after you with prudence and sanity. Even so, if I wasn't born to be hanged, it would have been my finish. I can't tell you what happened. It was everyone for himself, and everyone scattered. Soler's knaves ride well and they know the sierra, so God be with them! Besides, I drew out of it when you did, and followed to pick up the pieces."

"But the troopers—how did you shake them off?"

The other spat thoughtfully. "In such a scramble, anything can happen. Perhaps they took me for one of theirs; perhaps they didn't want to break their necks; perhaps they were busy with Soler's boys, or thought your father couldn't be far down the trail and chased after him. At any rate here we are."

Garcia looked almost as fagged as his horse, which stood behind him, head down and knees bent. Moving a trifle, he caught his breath sharply.

"You're wounded yourself!" exclaimed Pedro.

"Wounded is right! God made me for the sea, not the saddle. I've got blisters on my rump big as ducats. Wish they were ducats and in my pocket," he added.

Pedro felt a pang of conscience. "Cdspita! You've stripped yourself for us! The jailer; Soler; money to my father for the journey—"

"Not a word of it! Call it a loan. But loan or not, if I've paid back something on account to the reverend devil, de Lora, all would be well-spent." He stood a moment transfigured with hate. "You're lucky. You leave Jaen with a part of your debt canceled. Mine's to pay, and by God I'll pay it!"

Then, wrenching himself out of the mood, he said quietly, "But we're still in pickle and have to keep going. Let's chart our course. Do you know this neighborhood?"

Taking his direction from the moon and from the mountain peaks to the south, Pedro concluded that they were over toward Puente Genii. The distant summits marked the sierra back of Malaga. That city was the nearest seaport they could make.

"And we'll never make it," declared Garcia. "After tonight every road to the south will be watched for us. They'll reckon, I hope, that your father and mother were bound for Malaga. Besides, even if we got there, what'll we do for a ship without money?"

These were telling objections. Pedro stared blankly at the other's bluff face.

"No," Garcia went on, "we'll do better toward the west: the Genii River, then the Guadalquivir, and so downstream to Cadiz. I've still got that bill of change I told you of—eight hundred in gold there. Damned if we'll leave that to the Jews! We can ship to Italy from Sanlucar as well as from Malaga. And as a hiding place— hombre! — there's none to beat it. So tighten your belt, lad. We'll make the most of tonight. Sleep in the day, travel in the dark, rob when we must— it's a long pull, but Sanlucar's the answer."

So, leaving Garcia's spent horse behind them, they set out with aching limbs, Pedro's slender shadow next to his friend's broader one— two hunted men on the long road to the west.

XXlll

As MIGHT have been expected, the Marquis Luis de Carvajal took a correct view of the above events. Others, less firm in moral principle, might wish the de Vargases well or secretly admire the courage shown

in their escape; but the Marquis was guided by truer considerations. Except for his rank, he owed the successes and honors of life to the simple rule of always supporting the side of authority and power. This was not pusillanimous on his part, but instinctive. He belonged naturally to that useful class of people who are born and remain unswervingly proper. It shocked him that a man of Francisco de Vargas's station should have come under the censure of the Holy Office; it shocked him still more that such a man should violently rebel against authority rather than accept its judgment Hke a good citizen and Christian.

At the midday table, over some cold fowl and salad, he informed his daughter and Dona Antonia of what had happened and prescribed how they should think about it. As a step in Luisa's education, he took pains to impress them with the heinousness of the offense. It gratified him that his words seemed to produce a remarkable effect. In the dark, leather-paneled room, with its straight-backed chairs and rigid footmen, one could have heard a pin drop.

"There is but one cheerful aspect of the afifair," he concluded, suspending a chicken bone between his fingers. "Diego de Silva may recover from that young scoundrel's treachery. The sword was deflected by a rib and missed his heart. He is in a grave way, of course; but unless mortification sets in, the doctors have hopes for him."

A little faint, Luisa took a sip of wine.

"Treachery? What kind of treachery?" she murmured.

"The worst. The blackest." Carvajal sucked his chicken bone. "They tell me that de Silva, who is a man of deep piety and a zealous servant of the Holy Office, entered de Vargas's cell with a view of sparing him from the rigors of the tribunal. He hoped to secure a confession which might have helped the young man before Their Reverences. A deed of Christian charity. The youth sprang on him unawares and drove a sword, which had somehow been smuggled in, through his body. But he'll be brought back in chains yet, he and his father."

"How terrible!" whispered Luisa, her soft velvet eyes fluttering. For the first time, the dreadful thought occurred to her: what if Pedro de Vargas had been searched and her monogrammed handkerchief found! Blessed Virgin protect her! She felt on the point of swooning.

"I do wrong," regretted the Marquis, "to discuss such things before you, my little dove—or before you, senora." He glanced from the sweetly sensitive face of his daughter to Antonia, who looked equally distressed. "Your pardon!"

From their reticules, both ladies now drew their vials of smelling salts (indispensable to the tight-laced women of the period) and sniffed delicately. Antonia had as much need of it as her charge. She too wondered about the handkerchief and what had been learned in the prison or might be learned if Pedro were recaptured.

"He was not searched then?" Luisa asked with an artfulness understood only by the duenna.

The Marquis squeezed a half-orange over his fowl. "Not that I heard of. But you can't conceal a sword in your breeches. I tell you it was smuggled in, probably by that desperado, Garcia."

"And you think there's a chance of overtaking them, my lord?"

"Excellent chance. Apparently they are bound for Malaga, but they will never get there. The Inquisition has a long arm, I assure you."

He finished his chicken, while Luisa and Antonia thought long, sober thoughts. Romance, glamorous in the moonlight and perfume of the garden, had hardly the substance to resist so rough a storm. Luisa was not her father's daughter for nothing; Antonia remembered her status as a poor relation.

The Marquis, having dipped his fingers in the bowl and dried them on a napkin presented by the footman, began toying with some fruit.

"Let us talk of pleasanter things," he remarked. "I believe that Diego de Silva will recover. That he may do so lies near my heart, and I narrowly questioned the doctor, Miguel Segrado, about his chances this morning." Then slyly, "It concerns you too, little daughter, so do not fail to make special mention of the good gentleman in your prayers."

"Concerns me, my lord?" said Luisa absently.

Her father eyed her with immense fondness. What exquisite beauty! It showed the blood she came from. What a pure and spiritual face! Innocent as snow. But a profound nature, like his own, a good mind.

Then as waggishly as his solemn face and arrogant beard permitted, he rejoined, "Shall I tell you a secret?" He enjoyed prolonging the suspense and consumed a grape before continuing. "It was practically arranged before this sad event, and now, if God wills that de Silva recover, it shall certainly be concluded. In brief, daughter, at his entreaty, I have decided to give you in marriage to Diego de Silva. Is that not a fine choice? Have I not done well by you?"

"Yes, my lord," she stammered, casting a helpless glance at Antonia.

But the other, equally startled, could only stare back. The ironic chance that, of all men, Diego de Silva, victim of Pedro's violence, should have been selected as Luisa's husband dazed both of them.

The Marquis raised his eyebrows. "You do not seem as pleased as I expected."

"Of course," she said, "of course—only the suddenness of it."

"There's no better match in the province," he proclaimed "none. I confess that he does not rate himself too modestly when it comes to a dowry. It will cost me a pretty figure. But I have only you and I can please my fancy. The Senor de Silva is a man of means; he stands high in the favor of the Holy Office; he is welcome at Court. Since I have no son, it is time I had a grandson. All these are on the credit side and worth the dowry. If it were not for this overseas venture--"

Thinking aloud, the Marquis frowned at his wine cup.

"Overseas, your Grace?" put in Antonia, scenting a possible delay.

Carvajal nodded, "Speculation. These cursed Indies, a sink hole for money! He was to accompany Father Ignacio to the islands in the interest of the Santa Casa, but cheap land and slaves were a part of it. He may waste his substance." The Marquis frowned again. Then suddenly brightening "But that's over, of course. The Inquistor will have to do without him. It's an ill wind that blows no one good. This wound may be the salvation of him. By the time he's up and married, the notion of traveling with have passed. No, all in all, he's the man for you my daughter." The Marquis added archly, "Senora de Silva."

Luisa did not protest. Her conventional mind accepted what had to be and tried to make the best of it. After all, de Silva was a man of fashion, rather good looking and not too old. Her father might easily have chosen someone less attractive. If only the regrettable episode with Pedro were never discovered!