Captain from Castile (37 page)

Gradually the clamor and melee dwindled under the expert carving of Catana and ladling of Isabel. Silence closed in, while teeth and knives were busy. The fires grew brighter as darkness came on. A half hour later, Catana sank down by the side of Botello, finished the turkey leg she was eating, threw away the bone, and wiped her hands on the grass.

"Well, Master, did the meat taste good?"

He was in fine humor and belched contentedly.

"Excellent, Catana. I've had no better victuals in this country'— though, of course, fowl should be cooked in oil with sprigs of garlic."

"Of course," she assented.

"And top it off with a goblet of cool white wine. Eh, muchacha? I wonder if I'll ever drink malaga again." v

She was surprised. "Don't you know whether you will or not, sefior?"

"Yes," he replied, becoming professional. "Of course I know. When I said 'I wonder,' it was a fashion of speech. And now, Ivlistress, taz a taz; one good turn deserves the next. What did you want of me? Your fortune in the stars?"

She shook her head. "No. That wouldn't help. If it's a good fortune, I want to be surprised; if it's bad, I'd rather not hear about it."

"Sensible," he approved. "I can tell you that Hernan Cortes himself shares your opinion. He has forbidden the casting of horoscopes until we are established in Mexico. A wise decision," Botello added gravely, "for the stars are troubled and give but two-edged answers. I would have stretched a point to please you, Catana, but I am glad to obey the General's orders. . . . Well then, what is it, if not a horoscope?"

She was silent a moment, looking down and plucking nervously at the grass blades next to her.

"I'm in love," she said finally in a low voice.

"Is it possible!" exclaimed Botello, smothering a smile in his beard, for Catana's relations wdth Pedro were well-known in the army.

She clenched her hand against her breast. "Ah, Master, so much in love! I want the love of a certain gentleman. I want it more than anything in the world. Good fortune or bad, if he loves me, nothing else

matters."

The astrologer struggled with amusement, but his trade had taught him to keep a straight face.

"Deal plainly with me. Mistress," he said in his hollow, professional voice. "Does not Pedro de Vargas love you?"

"I don't know," she faltered. "He likes me—yes. I please him at times. But does he love me. Master; will he ever love me one tithe of my love for him? He thinks of battle, gold, fame— por supuesto, being a cavalier. I wouldn't have him different. He dreams of a fine lady in Spain. Let him dream of her. I don't ask—"

Her voice caught. Sentimentally Botello laid his broad hand on hers. "Que deseas? It is life, my dear. Captain de Vargas is of noble blood. You cannot expect too much."

"I expect nothing," she burst out. "I only long for him. That isn't forbidden, is it?"

"You're his querida, aren't you?"

"I pass for it in the army. He calls me so. But not yet—not once—" She broke off, confused, and stared down.

"Hm-m/' pondered the other, admiring her graceful figure and keen face in the half-light from the fire. "That's odd. But why do you come to me?"

She looked up eagerly. "Because I'm ignorant. You're learned and wise and have secret powers. If you could give me a charm, Master, something that would win him, that would make him care—"

With an eye to the proper effect, Botello drew himself up. ''Canastos! Do you come to Master Limpias Botello, the pupil of the great Novara himself, as if I were a witch-bawd, selling philters! Que impudencia! Have you no respect!"

Then, seeing her duly abashed, he allowed his ruffled feathers to settle and added kindly, "But, vaya, I've been young myself. You're a good wench and mean no harm. Besides, I admit that the meat was plentiful and well-cooked. It is true that I know charms so powerful that they would draw Prester John himself to your bed. But these are trifles compared with the works of true magic. I make no account of them."

Catana refused to be put off. "Just one, Maestro mio/' she pleaded humbly. "One little charm."

He appeared to hesitate. "Well, then, in your ear, for these are secret matters."

Catana drew close.

". . . change of the moon," he whispered. ". . . put some in his meat or drink. It is infallible."

The age believed in strange nostrums, and Catana, who had been brought up to the facts of life, listened as if to a medical prescription. But for all that she turned hot.

"Yes, I've heard of it," she nodded. "A girl in Jaen told me about it after she married her lover. But, seiior, I could not do that, not for anything. He is too high-born a gentleman. It would put a taint upon him. It would shame him. He would never forgive me."

"He would never know, muchacha."

She straightened herself. "Senor, I shall never do anything that I would be ashamed to have him know. ... Is there nothing else?"

The magician, as if in deep thought, combed his beard. Half-honest, half-rogue, he believed in his arts, but knew that in this case no art was necessary. Therefore, why not make the most of a sure thing?

"Well," he admitted, "to tell the truth I have one charm unequaled in the world. Woman, it is mighty enough to win you the person of any man alive." Botello sucked in his breath. "It is a locket ring from Rome

given me by Seiior Incubo himself. But it is worth a fortune. I could not part with it."

Poor Catana sat hopelessly coveting this marvel, her eyes hungry.

"I have saved it these many years to sell to a queen," he went on. "It is singular of its kind. Ten thousand spells, I repeat ten thousand separate spells, each one potent enough to exact the obedience of ten demons, went into the making of it. I hope that the consort of the Great Montezuma will buy it of me for a ton of gold. It is worth no less."

"Could you not lend it to me, Master," ventured Catana—"only for a day?"

"No, I cannot part with it. But because of the good victuals and your kindness—" Botello hesitated. "Yes, by God, I will show it to you, though I keep it secret."

Fishing in his wallet, he brought out a small sack of cheap jewelry used in trade with the Indians, and fishing again in this he produced a ring.

It was a big gilt ring with a flashy glass ruby covering the top of it, and so contrived that the setting opened as a locket. But the reverent manner in which Botello handled it between thumb and forefinger, the way he tilted it to gleam in the firelight, robbed Catana of all judgment. She eyed the treasure with a famished longing.

"See," remarked the diabolic Botello, touching the ruby, "this is known as the Rose of Delight. I slip it on your thumb. Wait—in a moment you will feel the heat of it, such is the power it holds."

And such is the power of suggestion that Catana actually felt her thumb grow warm. She turned it here and there, unable to take her eyes from it.

"Wonderful," she murmured.

"Isn't it! A miracle. That's what I call magic!" said Botello. "To complete the effect and turn its energy upon the desired person, the locket must contain some element of his body, such as hair or nail parings, but he must not know of this."

Catana drew a tiny embroidered pouch of linen from beneath her doublet. It was hung around her neck with a cord.

"When I cut Sefior de Vargas's hair," she explained, "he didn't know that I saved a little to put next my breast. I said three Pater Nosters over it and three Aves, but the charm did not work."

Catana removed several strands of hair from the pouch and coiled them inside the open locket of the ring. "Just to try," she explained with deep guile. "You know, my thumb's warmer than ever."

Equally guileful, Botello nodded. "Of course. What do you expect?

. . . Well, take out the hair and give me back the ring, moza. I'll let you see it again sometime."

"No." She drew away, clenching her hand. "Seiior, let me keep it tonight. Do me that grace, caro Maestro. If you will, I'll mend and wash for you; I'll save the choicest bits in the pot. You know I have no gold, but do that much for me, and I'll be grateful to the end of my life."

A fine actor, Botello looked astounded, then touched, then wavering.

"By God, Mistress, you're a very robber. The ring is priceless. Washing and mending, say you! Pot scrapings, in return for the loan of a treasure! Well, go to, have it your way. Curse the fool I am! A kind heart will always be my undoing. Keep the ring for tonight but guard it preciously. If you lost it, the seven curses of Incubo would shrivel you up like an onion. Go to, you're a minx!"

She caught his hand to her lips. "Thank you, noble Master! Thank you from my whole heart! I'll guard the ring every moment . . ."

Absorbed in it, she got up and stood with her hand extended, then wandered ofT, still admiring the beautiful talisman.

Botello relieved himself with a chuckle. For the loan of a cheap ring, he would journey to Mexico in much greater comfort. The best of it was that for once he had no misgivings as to the outcome of his sorcery.

XL/

The first day's march had not been hard, and the rain fortunately held off, so that the men lingered awhile about the campfire before sleep. A good supper, the lighter air of the upland, the beginning fragrance of mountain pine instead of the cloying jungle perfume, had put the company into a happy, relaxed mood. It was one of those evenings remembered by old soldiers when the toil and anguish of war have been forgotten.

Perhaps a dozen fires were scattered among the trees, their light intercepted by random figures. Now and then snatches of song rose above the hum of voices. In Catana's platoon, one of the men had packed a fiddle on the march and now sat scraping a tune out of the strings. When she reappeared from her talk with Botello, a shout went up for a dance.

"Hey, Catana, give us a zarahanda. There's a bully girl! A right Castilian dance for the honor of Jaen! Shake your hips!"

"To hell with you," she protested, still absorbed by the magic ring. "After slogging all day and cooking supper for you lazy cantoneros to boot, do you think I'm going to kick up my heels to amuse you? By God, have another think, vagabonds."

"Oh, come, hermanitaf' urged Manuel Perez, who was proud of his sister's proficiency and liked to show her off. "You're not so jaded as that. Give the boys some fun. You used to work all day at the Rosario and dance all night. Are you getting old? Here's Magallanes the Portuguese, who swears we have no dancers in Spain to match the Lisbon bailarinas. You'll not swallow that, I hope."

"Sure she won't," someone agreed. "Viva la Cat ana!"

"Please, Tia mia!" yelled the boy Ochoa, eager for the glory of his patroness.

"You ought to be asleep, naughty," she answered. "Wait till I catch you!" But yielding to the general demand, she shrugged her shoulders. "All right then, if you've got to have it. Pest take you! You can't expect much from a dance in hose and breeches."

She had laid off her coat of padded armor which covered the suit she had worn on landing, now patched and stained. Her reference to breeches drew a fire of good-natured ribaldry, to which she replied in kind.

"But who's dancing against me?" she demanded. "It takes two for the zarahanda. Do I have to invite my own partner, gallants? I like that!"

Clowning as usual, Mad Cervantes pushed forward, cut an exaggerated bow, and kissed his fingers. "A su servicio, hermosa senorita!"

An arm swept him aside before she could answer.

"You're dancing with me, Catana. Que diablos! Do you wonder about partners when I'm on hand?"

Pedro de Vargas had come up in the half-light of the fire without her seeing him. For an instant, she could only stare openmouthed. The ring! Having momentarily forgotten, she now recalled it. The proof of its magic stood smiling in front of her, as if Pedro had dropped from the clouds. On any other evening, she would have thought nothing of this, because they often met after supper; but tonight—

"What's wrong?" he asked. "I'm not a ghost."

She forced a smile. "You startled me, senor. I hadn't seen you. Dance? Hombres, you'll see how we dance a zarabanda in the Sierra of Jaen. . . . Remember the steps, senor?"

Pedro nodded. "I think so. Three times forward, three times back, eh? Leap and circle to begin with. It'll come to me."

Catana called to the fiddler. "JuanitOj give us a tune."

The onlookers made space, some men sitting down, others standing. The firelight played on bearded faces, steel caps, and tattered clothes. Catana saw that Botello had joined the group. He smiled triumphantly at her, as if saying, "What did I tell you?" And she nodded solemnly. Juanito, the fiddler, sawed out an air, in correct time but wheezy melody.

The saraband of the period had little or nothing in common with the later slow and stately court dance of that name. It was a folk dance wild, violent, and none too proper. Bystanders clapped the beat with their hands or shouted a cadenced aha as the tempo quickened. Of course the theme of the dance was male pursuit and female flight, the latter being far from coy and never successful.

As Pedro advanced, broad of shoulder, light of foot, his eyes wide and intent on her, she swayed back, coquettish in retreat, then minced forward as he retired. Back, forward; then circling each other in the center, face to face. She pirouetted out of his arms. Again. Again. Aha! He swung her clear of the ground; she landed nimble as a cat, in perfect time. Aha! Aha! The dance burst into flame.

Flying sparks of thought crossed her mind. She recalled herself dancing at the Rosario, the ring of drab faces. A night's work. Lord in heaven! Compared with that, how wonderful this was! Here in this strange, wild land, one of the army, dancing before comrades, dancing with Pedro de Vargas! Life at the peak!

A dance may be swift or slow; but vibration, not movement, is the soul of it: vibration, an electric tension. Now at last she could feel his desire for her, no longer casual or partial, but concentrated and demanding. She could feel it in the gentleness of his arms even though they swung her high, in the burning of his hands on her hips, in the appeal of his eyes. She knew that she had never danced so well, with such abandon. The rhythmic clapping and shouts of the onlookers, the mad sawing of the fiddler, were an intoxicating accompaniment.