Captain from Castile (7 page)

Pedro roused himself. The subject was almost as absorbing as Luisa de Carvajal.

"You know, sir, coming back today, I met a man" (it was not expedient to state where) "who has spent many years in the Indies."

"And I have no doubt he's a notable rogue," grunted the older de Vargas.

It was so near a guess that Pedro felt startled.

"Why do you think so, sir?"

"Because it has been that way from the beginning. When the Admiral made his first voyage twenty-four years ago, he took the prison scum of Palos and Cadiz with him. Even my good friend, Alonso de Ojeda, who went along and was a young man of promise, became corrupted in the Indies and behaved, I understand, no better than a pirate. So it has been always. Rascal seamen, deserters, lawbreakers, gold hounds, young cadets on the loose, and rabble. There are a few exceptions, but not many. . . . What about this fellow?"

"He spoke of new lands, empires, gold."

The elder de Vargas stuck his lip out. "That proves he was a rogue. They found some islands with a lot of naked savages on them. I'm told they also found leagues of swamp land further west with more savages. What gold and pearls they found haven't paid for the good ships wrecked or the funds wasted, let alone brought in a return. For a while there was grand talk of treasure from this evil country, but it has amounted to nothing. Empires? Pooh! What has Spain ever got out of the New World but the French Sickness, the cursed pox, that the Admiral's ne'er-do-wells brought back with them!"

"And yet, sir," Pedro argued, "the man said that he left Spain poor and has now two thousand pesos."

"Probably a lie. Make it fifty. Those I have met from across seas are always big talkers."

Pedro clung desperately to his new enthusiasm. "It was only, sir, that I thought it might be possible—it might be interesting—"

"Oho!" said his father.

"To look into the matter."

"What matter?"

"As an alternative to Italy, sir. We have peace with France—"

Don Francisco slapped his palm on the table so vigorously that Doiia Maria jumped. "Exactly! I thought that was in the wind. Every boy in the two Castiles is cracked on the subject of picking up gold and Indian slaves for nothing, not to speak of an empire or so. Listen. I

had a friend in Estremadura. Martin Cortes de Monroy, as good a captain of foot as any in the army, a poor, but honorable man. He raised his son—I believe the name was Hernan—to be the support of his old age. He headed him for Italy under Don Gonsalvo himself. Well, the boy, who was an idle scapegrace, got moonstruck about the New World. Empires and mountains of gold or what-not. So he took the bit in his teeth and sailed for the Islands. He was just about your age.

Sefior de Vargas cooled his ire with a draught of wine.

"You must not excite yourself, my love," soothed Dofia Maria. "You ought not to accuse our son—"

"I am not accusing liim; I am instructing him," returned her husband. "That was thirteen or fourteen years ago. What happened? Well, this Hernan Cortes, after being in and out of jail a couple of times, gets mixed up with a trashy girl in one of the Islands, whom he is forced to marry. He runs a farm there, so his father told me, and has worked up to the wonderful position of alcalde in a twopenny village called Santiago. That's what his empire amounted to, and a deuced scurvy one. I could give you a dozen other examples. No," Sefior de Vargas concluded, "let this be understood once and for all. You are not going to the Indies. Get that nonsense out of your head this instant. You will follow the regular army career. It means work, but it means solid advancement."

Silence followed this outburst. Doiia Maria half smiled, because she knew that her husband's rough voice covered up a very gentle heart. Mercedes, excited to hear the discussion of such weighty matters, sat with her lips parted. Pedro accepted what he had been anticipating all along. Italy might not be so exciting as the Western World, but it had advantages.

Almost at once Don Francisco's irritation died down. He fingered his gold chain and cleared his throat a couple of times. Then, with the look of a man who has been keeping a pleasant surprise up his sleeve and decides that this is the moment to spring it, he said with attempted casualness: —

"You're right about the present peace with France. I've had a plan for some time which I didn't want to tell you of until it ripened. No use raising false hopes. I had a letter yesterday from the Sefior de Bayard in Grenoble."

The stir that greeted this announcement equaled Don Francisco's expectation. Maria de Vargas lowered her needlework, and her round face became an O of interest. Pedro forgot momentarily about Luisa

de Carvajal. Mercedes's dark eyes, already too big for her small face, became still larger.

"Seiior de Bayard!" echoed Pedro. "A letter from him?"

The name of the French chevalier "without fear and without reproach" was one to conjure with in military circles of that day. It was already legendary, though Bayard himself had not passed the middle forties. From the marches of Flanders to the mountains of Navarre, from the Alps to Naples, there was hardly a battlefield of the last twenty years which had not seen his pennon. He had slain the Spanish knight, Sotomayor, in one of the most famous duels of the age; he had taken a leading part in the day-long, bloody combat at Trani; he was one of the heroes of Fornuovo, Ravenna, Marignano; he had been selected as the only one from whom the young King of France would receive the order of knighthood. If Gonsalvo de Cordoba was the most distinguished general of the period. Bayard was its most illustrious single champion. Around his crest blazed the glory of departing chivalry.

He and Don Francisco had fought each other with mutual admiration for ten years, and his name was a household word in the de Vargas family. It was one of the old cavalier's titles of distinction that he had lost his front teeth from a blow of the good Chevalier's mace at Ceri-gnola, but had given as good as he got by unhorsing the beloved enemy in a later melee. He liked to describe the charge of the French horse at Ravenna.

"There was a forest of pennons. I knew most of them and in front, as always, I could pick out the Senor de Bayard's. It looked like an old friend. I said to Pedro de Paz, 'See there! We'll have hot work.' He laughed and tossed his lance up and caught it, vowing that no day had ever promised better. We faced the Duke of Lorraine's lances, whom the Chevalier commanded. They came on like a wave, six hundred of them, yelling 'France!' and 'Bayard!' We met them with 'Santiago!' Holy Virgin, what a crash! But I kept my seat and headed toward the lion pennon. Everybody wanted the honor of engaging Pierre de Bayard, and he was hard to reach. All at once I saw a great black horse rearing up on me and heard Bayard's war shout. My horse, El Moro, met him with teeth and hoofs. We could get in no more than a couple of blows before we were swept apart. But he recognized me. He raised his sword and called, 'Ha! Monseigneur de Vargas!' I have never seen him since."

That a letter should have arrived from such a personage was more than enough to stir the family of a retired soldier in southern Spain. A letter from the King would hardly have been so exciting.

cosa

"Bayard!" exclaimed Dona Maria. And lapsing into Italian, ''Che I"

I wrote him four months ago." said Don Francisco, "and he has given an immediate answer by the hand of his clerk. The good gentleman never learned to write, I believe, though he can sign his name. He is now governor of the French city of Grenoble, a place most convenient to Italy when the next war breaks out. I have given great thought to your education, son Pedro, because a good schooling is worth more than treasure, and I could think of no cavalier under whom you could study the profession of arms with as much profit."

Pedro's eyes were glowing. Mercedes caught her breath.

"I asked him whether he would graciously receive you into his household while peace lasts."

Having worked his audience to a pitch, Senor de Vargas now tantalized it by removing a travel-stained letter from his pocket with great deliberation. A blob of red wax, stamped with a signet, showed on the outside.

"It's in French, of course," said Don Francisco, pleased with his knowledge of that language. "Au moult preux et moult valoureux — "

Pedro could no longer contain himself; he leaned across the table. "What does he say. Father? Does he say yes?"

"Steady, son. Everything in its order. The noble gentleman is kind enough to recall with pleasure our meetings on various fields. It is like him to overvalue my merit, but he was always generous. He remarks truly that we are growing old and that we will never see such pleasant days again." Don Francisco's finger crawled down the page. "He regrets the injury to my knee, but hopes (note this, how gallantly put!) that it will not deprive him of the honor of encountering me in the next campaign. He kisses your hands, Maria." De Vargas paused for effect. "And he will be happy to welcome our son to his company of lances. He will give him every opportunity in his power. . . . Well, Pedro, how's that? Where's the New World now!"

It was nowhere—blotted out by this magnificent prospect. France, the patronage of the Great Cavalier, the prestige of having been trained by Bayard! Pedro sat with his fists clenched and his cheeks red.

"PedritOj querido mio!" exclaimed Dofia Maria. "How proud I am!"

Mercedes slipped around to her father's side and gazed at the signature on the letter, bold and rough as if it had been cut in wood.

"Look, Pedro," she said, "look!"

At that instant the dogs burst into an explosion of barking and dashed for the path leading up from the road to the pavilion. Sefior

de Vargas called them back. An unhurried footstep could be heard approaching. Then, around the corner, appeared a tall, handsomely dressed figure.

It was Diego de Silva.

Pedro once more had the impression of a large black bat transformed into a man, though nothing in de Silva's appearance, except his small chin and big, pointed ears, accounted for it. He was dressed in the latest fashion, with gold points to his doublet, a touch of lace at the throat, elegant riding boots, and a beautifully hilted sword. As he fondled the latter with a long, tapering hand, the last ray of sunset struck fire from a diamond on his forefinger. His scornful, unquiet eyes looked darker and larger than they actually were by contrast with the pallor of his skin. He moved and spoke with the grace of a finished courtier. But in spite of his glitter, something furtive and deformed, something nocturnal, clung to him.

Civilities were exchanged. De Silva raised Dofia Maria's hand to his lips—she made him as low a curtsy as her plumpness permitted; he confused little Mercedes with a couple of compliments; greeted Don Francisco with respect and exchanged bows with Pedro. He explained that he had been inspecting his vineyards, which bracketed the de Vargas property, and couldn't resist the temptation of dropping in.

"We are honored, sefior," bowed the elder de Vargas, overlooking his irritation of the morning. "If we had been warned of your coming, we would have provided a suitable reception. As it is, we can offer only meager refreshment. Pedro, fill a cup for our guest. The fruit, sir, is not bad, if I may presume so far."

"Your kindness embarrasses me," returned de Silva.

He drank to his hosts, then took the chair which had been placed for him on Dofia Maria's right. He observed that the weather, while excellent for the crops, was much too warm for riding, and that he felt slightly tired from his hunt for the Indian servant.

"You did not get on his traces, then?" said Don Francisco.

De Silva shrugged. "No, but he'll be picked up. A savage from the Indies won't get far in these mountains. I've sent word to Granada and Cadiz." His black glance rested a moment on Pedro. "You didn't join

us."

Perspiring under his doublet, Pedro explained his idea of searching in the other direction.

"Ah," said de Silva.

There was a chilly note in his voice. Pedro thought he knew the reason for de Silva's call and braced himself to meet a complaint about the two huntsmen. But surprisingly the subject was dropped.

"Excellent wine!" continued the other, smacking his lips. "Which recalls something very close to my heart, Don Francisco. Have you considered the offer I made you for your vineyard?"

So, that was his object. It annoyed the elder de Vargas that his guest should bring up a business matter in the presence of the family, a topic that ought to be discussed in private.

"Yes, I've considered it."

"You see," de Silva went on, "except for your land, I own this entire slope. I have acquired it piecemeal over several years. It would greatly convenience me if you sold, so that I could round out my property. And the price offered seemed to me fair."

"Entirely."

"Have you reached a conclusion?"

The de Vargas family held its breath.

"I do not wish to sell for the present, sir."

"Oh, come, sir!" de Silva urged. "The price is no great matter. We won't split hairs. I offered you five hundred ducats; suppose we make it seven hundred. It's an absurd figure, but I've set my mind on the thing. You can't say no to seven hundred ducats."

Hot waves began pulsing along the old cavalier's veins. The fellow seemed to think that all he needed was to jingle money—as if a de Vargas were a tradesman. He not only intruded on a family's privacy, but sat there parleying like a Jew. Saucy malapert! thought the old gentleman.

On her side, Dofia Maria gave him a disturbed glance. With Italian realism, she could see what the proposed sum meant. It would entirely cover the rest of Pedro's education and add weight to Mercedes's dot. Then, with the royal pension and the couple of benefices they held, life would be comfortable enough. Even if it meant sacrificing—

"I do not wish to sell for the present, sir."

"Ah," said de Silva. He looked bewildered a moment; then his eyes kindled, and a white band showed across his forehead. "Ah. Well, we'll drop the matter, sefior, for this time, though I'll be cursed if I understand."