Captain from Castile (6 page)

Luisa blushed, then leaned her head against the duenna's shoulder.

"He's better-looking than Juan Romer, don't you think, Cousin? Did you notice how his eyes light up when he smiles? And I love red

hair! They say he's going to Italy. They say he's the best swordsman in Jaen, that his father taught him."

"They, who? You seem to know a great deal about him, Primacita. I hope you didn't forget yourself and ask questions."

"Of course not. Cousin. I heard some ladies talking at the Bishop's the first time I met him."

"Did you hear anything more?"

ISO.

"Then it's my duty to tell you, little Cousin. He's young and poor. Your father could not possibly consider him. You know how it is. The Marquis plans a suitable match for you."

"I know."

The words and tone of voice expressed Luisa's attitude. She knew, without resenting the fact, that she must be given to some great lord whom her father chose for her. He might possibly be young and attractive, but the chances were against it. He would probably be years older than she, with a stout beard and bad teeth. He would exercise the authority of a father and the rights of a husband; would possess her body at his pleasure and beget children by God's will. She \vould be respected for her birth and rank, would go in front of most women at court; she might even, if she married a grandee, be called prima by the King. That part of it, from Luisa's standpoint, was most desirable. And then perhaps, according to Cousin Antonia, she might fall in love with a young cavalier, who would risk his life to keep trysts with her. It was a great sin, of course, but exciting and romantic, and women were naturally weak, Cousin Antonia said; they couldn't be expected to resist every temptation. But romance, if it came at all, came after marriage, not before.

"I know," she repeated.

Pedro de Vargas's eyes hovered in her mind like candle flames on the retina after the candles are blown out. They were more green than blue, and they had a queer fascination. She had felt almost a shock when he raised them to hers. It was still more of a shock when suddenly now she imagined him in the place of Cousin Antonia with his arm around her waist—a wicked thought, especially after mass. It embarrassed her and at the same time made her tingle all over, though her saint-like face revealed nothing.

"Pedro de Vargas means nothing to me of course," she said in her schooled, limpid voice to cover up the bum of her cheeks.

"Nothing?" smiled Antonia. "That's perfect then. A Uttle flirtation

would do you no harm, Cousin. It's taking young men seriously that hurts. In marriage, some experience beforehand is a great advantage. You know better how to please your husband—and manage him."

Luisa, more sophisticated than she appeared, asked innocently, "Experience?"

"Yes, chance meetings at church, unsigned letters, a word or two through the grille of a gate. No harm at all. He swears eternal troth. He thinks his heart is broken when you marry. You sigh a little. It's the spice of youth."

"It must be fun," Luisa agreed, careful to keep the eagerness out of her voice. And then, betraying herself, "Do you think he likes me?"

Antonia gave her a squeeze. Valgame Dios! He's mad about you! Any dunce can see that. If you lived in an ordinary house, you'd find him posted tonight under your window. But the poor boy can't besiege the Garvajal Palace. You'll have to give him a lead."

"How?"

"We'll think it over."

Antonia's eyes danced. Whatever happened, it was at least a pastime for an empty summer morning, usually so dull and hot behind the curtains of the mirador. As for Luisa, brand-new ideas were popping in her head like roasted chestnuts. She was being actually permitted by her duenna to think about a boy—not an imaginary boy such as she pictured before going to sleep at night, but a real boy with green-blue eyes and curly, bronze-colored hair! She might be allowed even to talk with him. Perhaps he wasn't so poor after all. That was the one fly in the ointment, because instinctively Luisa did not think much of poor people. Still, he was the son of Francisco de Vargas, and that partly made up for it. Luisa's heart raced under the strait jacket of her stays.

"What fun! May I call Sancha to unlace me? It's rather hot."

Antonia consented. "Yes, she can put me at ease too. The Marquis will not visit us this morning. They told me he was joining a man hunt for one of Diego de Silva's servants. There's an attractive man—Diego de Silva."

"Father says he has great holdings," commented Luisa absently.

"Rich as Croesus," Antonia nodded, "and of the first fashion. A relative of the Bishop of Burgos."

With scraping of brocade and creaking of laces, the ladies were divested of their church attire and of numerous petticoats. Luisa's trim figure expanded only slightly, but the duenna's a good deal. Exasperated, Sefiora Hernandez cuffed Sancha for pinching her at the unlacing. They then slipped into the long, negligee gowns of the period,

and at the same time, without knowing it, slipped forward in costume several hundred years. Sancha, kneeling, pulled the cruel, tight shoes from her mistresses' feet and replaced them with Moorish slippers. Then, at Antonia's direction, she brought a plate of candied fruit, placed it on a tabouret within reach of the couch, and retired.

Antonia, reclining, selected a fig and toyed with it a moment. A faint, flower-laden breeze stirred the window curtains. Luisa, seating herself on a cushion near by, looked up expectantly.

"That's better," Antonia sighed. "What were we talking about? Yes, de Vargas. In stays, one can't even think about love, can one?"

She nibbled the fruit. Her eyes deepened.

"We'll send him a letter, Primacita."

"What kind of letter? I could never write one."

"We'll do it together."

"What fun!"

Sefiora Hernandez gazed at the ceiling. Her lips moved. She smiled.

"Let me hear. Cousin," urged Luisa.

"Just a minute. Get the inkhorn and paper. Write down what I say." And when Luisa was ready, Antonia dictated, while the girl, who was not too handy a penman, labored with the tip of her tongue between her lips.

"Senor Cavalier, It is said that the devil dislikes holy water, which proves that Don Cupid is no devil, because he appears to thrive on it. If you would know more of the matter, you might apply at the gate of a certain garden tomorrow evening at nightfall. Which garden? Oh, sir, let Cupid instruct you."

"Why not tonight?" Luisa let slip before she could catch herself.

"For many reasons, my dove," Antonia instructed. "In the first place, you must not let him think that you are in too much of a hurry. In the second place, you must let him languish. In the third place, the Marquis de Carvajal is invited out tomorrow evening, and we shall be undisturbed. Know, my child, that the art of love is extremely subtle."

"You are very clever," Luisa admired. "But how can we send him the letter? Whom can we trust?"

The duenna nodded. "You're learning. Of course the chief point of love is secrecy. Don't worry, though. I'll send my servant, Esteban. He's carried messages to gentlemen—" She coughed. "I mean he knows me and knows what side his bread is buttered on."

"Thanks, darling Cousin!" Forgetting decorum, Luisa threw her arms around the other's neck. "And you'll teach me what I should say

tomorrow night?"

"Yes." Antonia was enjoying herself. "No girl but me has such a darling duenna." "I'm probably very weak, little rose." She gave Luisa a long kiss.

v/;

Peace after toil, port after stormy seas. No words could better describe Francisco de Vargas's retirement from active life. Though at times— especially after a visit or letter from some old comrade—he still discussed the possibility of returning to the service of king and honor in the arena of Italy, and cast yearning eyes on his weapons, he was becoming happily reconciled to the comforts of home and garden.

In this disposition, Doiia Maria warmly encouraged him. She pointed out that since their marriage in Florence twenty years ago, he had spent little more time with her than was enough to beget their children. She doubted, indeed, whether they would have had children at all, except for the fact that she had passed some of those years in her father's house, and had thus been available between campaigns.

"Honor, sir," she declared with Italian good sense, "is all very well until it becomes an excuse for travel and junketing. You have had all you need of it. A man of your years with a bad knee should not be elbowing young fellows and roaring Santiago in a charge."

"Do you call sword thrusts and wounds junketing, my love?" he protested, for she had put her finger on the weak point.

"Yes, sir, I do," she answered frankly. "But wounds and sword thrusts aren't the whole matter. In the service, you meet your friends; there's gossip and drinking, dicing and wenching, as you know very well."

"You talk as if I were a young dog like Pedro," returned her husband with a half-smile. "I trust that I have outlived such sins. As to my knee, you must admit that, once on horseback, I can hold my own against most gentlemen with lance, sword, or mace, as I proved last year in the tournament at Cordoba."

"And my heart was in my mouth every second," interjected Dofia Maria.

"Even on foot," continued the other, "I can still match our Pedro, though I grant it costs too much breath and sweat. He's very promising."

At that point, Dona Maria always clinched the argument. "Yes, and what becomes of his promise if you return to the wars? \Ve certainly cannot afford to keep more than one of you in the army. What becomes of honor for him? What becomes of the dowry for our daughter if she is to be married? What becomes of me who love you, querido mio?"

But in truth he did not need much urging. It was pleasant to be one of Jaen's most respected citizens, to be called on as judge in matters of sport or punctilio, and to be the idol of his wife and children. He gradually became almost as proud of his vines and orchard on the western slope beyond the city as he had once been of the Great Captain's favor; and a bumper of his golden wine, the envy of the district, or a salver of purple plums from the orchard, was nearly as close to his heart as the earlier drums and trumpets of fame.

He had built an open pavilion on a terrace, overlooking his trees and vines, and spent many spring and summer evenings there. If at times the approaching obligation of fitting Pedro out for the wars in a worthy fashion counseled the sale of the property, he kept putting it off, as a man who clings to a final luxury. That he might have to sell it was plain, for accouterments and traveling expenses came high, and his small revenue could not meet the charge; but he would not sell this year perhaps. He had won much from ransoms and from the intaking of cities during the Italian campaigns; he had also spent much, as befitted his rank, and he had a casual attitude toward money. Perhaps, after all, a loan rather than a sale might tide things over until Pedro could win a ransom or prize for himself.

On the terrace or within the pavilion, he liked to take the air with his family and eat supper from the generous baskets carried by Mouse, the donkey. At times his twelve-year-old daughter, Mercedes, who had a gift with the lute, would sing favorite ballads; Dofia Maria busied herself with needlework; while often the old cavalier would discourse on campaigns and captains, pedigrees and heraldry, fine points of manners and the code of honor, which formed an essential and fascinating part of young Pedro's education.

In front and slightly below them stretched the plain, rich in olive groves; a neighboring brook grew loud toward evening; the crimson sun withdrew beneath the horizon. Often they lingered until the moon came out and the shrilling of the cicadas filled the night. So the afternoon of Don Francisco's life drew to a leisurely and reminiscent close.

It was only fitting that Pedro's name-day should be mildly celebrated at the pavilion. In their next best, if not their very best, clothes,

the four members of the de Vargas family sat on three sides of the small table so that everyone could look out over the landscape. Senor de Vargas was fastidious in small matters. He liked good plate on the table and fine linen. There must be a servingman prompt with ewer and napkin for fingers greasy from the handling of meat. Everyone must have his or her appointed silver cup.

"Like good tapestry," he used to observe, "a noble life is the result of small stitches."

This afternoon, he was richly dressed in black velvet, and he wore a heavy gold chain with a medal of Saint Francis about his neck. Because of the heat, he had removed his cap and sat bald-headed, though a fringe of hair still resisted time. Pedro had resumed his scarlet doublet. Dona Maria, as became her age, wore purple; and Mercedes had put on her saffron gown. The rays of the setting sun added color to the clothes and a gleam to the silver.

When the last bones had been tossed to the dogs, and when wine and fruit were brought, the old gentleman raised his goblet to Pedro.

"Long life, my son, and fame!" After drinking the health, he added: "Do not be depressed about your failure to bring in de Silva's servant. Not every enterprise succeeds. You laid your plans well, but finding a man in the sierras is difficult. As a matter of fact," he went on, "I'm not too sorry, because I have no great fondness for his master."

Pedro flushed. His pensiveness had nothing to do with Goatl, but concerned a letter, the stiff edges of which he could feel at that moment through his shirt. He was thinking how long it seemed until tomorrow night.

"Thank you, sir."

"Probably," the other continued, "we will not be having many more of your name-days together. Next year, if God wills, we shall drink to you abroad and, I hope, in the field. After beating the Swiss at Marignano, it isn't likely that the young French King, Francis, will rest too long on his laurels."

"They say his court at Fontainebleau is the gayest anywhere," Mercedes put in.

Her father nodded. "Creo que si. There are no higher-spirited or better-bred caballeros anywhere than the French. And apparently young Don Francis is most accomplished. The more I think of it," he went on hopefully, "the better your prospects look, son Pedro. We have three young and valorous monarchs in Europe today: Henry of England, Francis of France, and our own King, Don Carlos, whom God cherish. Where youth is, sparks will be flying."