Captain from Castile (70 page)

He forced himself to answer, "Aye, sweet lady, and now I come for my guerdon."

"Alas, sir, what guerdon worthy of so high and mighty a knight?"

He said mechanically, "A guerdon of which no man on earth is worthy: your love,
reina mia
—yourself."

It was proper at this point that dramatic silence should follow. He felt inadequate and artificial.

At the right instant, she said softly, "I am yours."

He should then have kneeled, taken her hand, and burst into rhapsody. Som.ehow, he could only answer sincerely enough, "And I am the happiest of men."

She waited for more, but put his silence down to emotion and added lightly: "My token, sir, the handkerchief I gave you—did you wear it in battle? Do you still keep it?"

The question was natural but unfortunate. It recalled that June night in Tenochtitlan, de Silva's big ears and crooked eyebrows; the passion of that night; what Pedro would have liked to forget, that his Queen of Honor had once lain in de Silva's arms. More unfortunate still, it recalled Catana and how he had given her Luisa's token. The garden faded out. He saw only for a moment the dim sleeping room in their quarters, Catana's tanned face, darker in the half-light. He could feel her body against his and could hear his own voice, "Say now that I don't love you!" A hotter vintage than this.

The scene vanished. But Catana had entered the garden.

"You do not answer, my lord."

He lied of course. "I plead guilty, seiiora. We lost everything but our skins in the Noche Triste."

Naturally Luisa did not care, except that she wanted to fill these uncomfortable pauses in the conversation. She wondered what the trouble was and then instinctively she guessed. He did not know how to shift from one level to the other with her. Cosa de risa! She could help him there. She too had grown up and was a little tired of fine language.

But a person who has been long identified with one role should be careful about shifting to another. Better to remain ideal and aloof than to become trivial.

On a stone bench ensconced among the laurel, she talked amusingly

about the gossip of Jaen; coyly forbade him to frighten her with stories of battles in New Spain, but wanted to know whether Indian ladies set their caps for him; asked how he had got so rich. His account of the caverns at Cacahuamilpa interested her most.

Little by little, she drew him on. His pulses quickened. She was glad that she had taken Antonia's advice about the wider application of the rose water.

"La, my lord!" she protested feebly. "Fie, my dear lord!" But she returned his kisses.

As a Queen of Honor, Luisa had stood alone; as an amorous woman, she invited comparisons. Pedro was used to headier wine than these lemonade intimacies.

Imperceptibly the dream element of the evening shredded off. He looked at Luisa no longer as a poetic abstraction, but as a pretty coquette with a good deal of experience. He was soon to become her husband. And all at once he realized that between him and her stretched and would stretch forever four years, the flaming center of his life, in which she had no part.

He thought of Olmedo on the hill at Trinidad. "After your gold and your lady, Pedro de Vargas, what then?" He thought of Cortes on the crowning day of victory in the ruins of Tenochtitlan.

He thought of Gatana.

The wooden panels of Luisa's corset cut into his arm.

"Alas, senora," he said finally without too much regret, "here comes Dofia Antonia, I think. She's tactful enough to make a noise."

LXXVI

When elected Alcalde, Don Francisco had taken a spacious house on the Plaza Santa Maria, as befitted his official position, and for the time being had closed the Casa de Vargas; but the furniture of his cabinet had been brought up entire from the old house. There were the prie-dieu, the crucifix in front of it on the wall, the narrow black table, the high candlesticks, the rigid, high-backed chairs, the half-dozen books, the stands of armor. Nothing but the shape of the study had changed. Into this more familiar room, the three de Vargases turned as a matter of course upon arriving home from the Carvajal Palace. It was the moment for talking over the big event of the evening before retiring. But instead of the high spirits that might have been expected, a

certain constraint, emanating from Pedro, showed itself. His father eyed him curiously. Doiia Maria, sitting down, plucked at her skirt.

"Well, I must say!" she remarked finally. "Have we been to a betrothal or a funeral? When Pedrito ought to be in the seventh heaven, he acts like a pallbearer. Not a word on the way home except about the horse Campeador you bought back for him, husband!"

"Now, now, Madrecita! What should I say? Can words describe her?"

"Looks can, Pedrito. At least you can look happy. My faith!"

"But I am happy. 'Sblood! Would you have me caper like a dancing master?"

Doiia Maria's lips trembled. "And I who laid such store by it! Planned for it this long time, because I thought— What's happened, querido?"

"Nothing." Pedro flung his hands wide. "What should happen? The Lady Luisa is perfection. I am unworthy of her least smile. But, Sefiora Mother, marriage is a serious step. It is not to be taken lightly."

"Nonsense!"

"Nay, wife," put in Don Francisco, "there's truth in what the boy says. You wouldn't have him behave too popinjay about it."

"Words!" Dofia Maria retorted. "A man's either happy about his marriage or he isn't. . . . Pedrito mio, darling, your father and I have no one else in the world to love. Don't you know how we've thought and talked of you these years and prayed for your safety and looked forward to your coming? Open your heart to us like you used—or has it changed in the New World?"

Don Francisco nodded. "Yes, speak out, son, if there's anything on your mind—whatever it is. We only want to help. Sometimes it eases a man to talk openly. But suit yourself. Your thoughts are your own. And I'm not one to go ferreting into what doesn't concern me."

Pedro hesitated. A sudden pulse of warmth throbbed under the ice which during the past months had been thickening around his spirit. Before the fire of his parents' love, he realized how much, since his break with Catana and Garcia, he had missed the companionship of people who cared and with whom he did not have to be on his guard. But the trouble \vas that he hardly knew what ailed him.

"How shall I say?" he groped. "Spain has a different feel from the New World. I'm not used to it yet. It's like putting on plate armor again when you haven't worn it for a while. Life's freer, bigger, over there. I don't know."

"I'll tell you," said his father. "You feel like I did, getting back from

a campaign. Missed the good comrades, the camp ways. Found Hfe finicky."

"Something like that," Pedro agreed, warming still more. "People seem younger over there. It's as if time were starting again. Not only a new country but a new age. People don't fuss so much about show. And then, Sefior Father, as you said, the good comrades. . . . But I'll get used to it. If we win our suit before the Emperor, I can hope for a command in Italy. Our kinsman, Don Juan Alonso—"

"Alack!" Dofia Maria interrupted. "You come from your betrothal and talk of leaving for the wars. We were discussing your marriage, son. You went to the Carvajal Palace happy and come back with a long face. Why? If the marriage doesn't please you— "

"Nay, Madrecita, it pleases me. I would be a fool else."

"You didn't write like that on your return. Your letters from Seville—"

"Yes, I know." In a flash he realized what weighed upon him. "I know. But tonight—" The ice cracked. He couldn't help speaking. "I remembered someone I loved in New Spain. I'll always love her. I can't help it."

Dofia Maria's gray eyes turned to o's of curiosity. "Who was she?"

Pedro already regretted the slip of his tongue. How could Don Francisco and Dofia Maria, aristocrats rigid as the chairs they sat in, understand about Catana?

"Sefiora my Mother, if I told you, it would only give you pain. Why talk of it?"

But she was not to be put off. "Some camp follower, I warrant."

"Yes."

"A fine compliment to the Lady Luisa—to be rated below a draggle-tail slut! I know the kind. At least it might have been an Indian princess, like the one you told me General Cortes had. Or perhaps she was"—Seiiora de Vargas dropped her voice—"perhaps you meant that."

"No, a Castilian girl."

"And a camp follower? Then in plain terms, my son, a whore."

Pedro gripped the arms of his chair. "Peace, seiiora! I'll have no one, not even you, couple that name with her. By God, madam—"

"How now!" Don Francisco put in sternly. "You'll remember to whom you're speaking, sir, I hope. ... As for you, wife, keep such round words to yourself. What is her name to us? We would not know her."

The slight in his voice stung Pedro as much as Dofia Maria's frankness.

"Aye, sir. But as it happens, you know her right well. If you will have it, it was Catana Perez of the Rosario tavern. She came with her brother to the Islands, followed our company to New Spain. . . . Or," he added bitterly, "have you forgotten her?"

Doiia Maria drew a sharp breath. The elder de Vargas straightened in his chair.

"Catana Perez!" he exclaimed. "Well, by the Lord, why could you not say so at first? Do you take me for a dog? Am I the kind to forget who saved our lives? She and the Seiior Garcia. A gallant wench! Except for her, we'd none of us be here tonight."

Dofia Maria relented. "Forgive me, son. I didn't know. I love her for her kindness. . . . Tell us about her."

Pedro's eyes blurred. He had misjudged his parents. Aristocrats, but not too rigid for gratitude.

"I thank you, Seiiora my Mother, Sefior my Father. . . . There's not much to tell."

But gradually, as he talked, he found that there was very much to tell. The stored-up memories unfolded. The frozen silence of the past year found an outlet. He told them of the marches and bivouacs, the dangers shared, the joys and sorrow. Now and then he found it hard to talk at all.

"We had a daughter there—in Coatl's country-. A sweet little one. Could you but have seen her, Madrecita! She had eyes like yours. She died of the viruelas. It was bitter hard."

A tear crossed Dofia Maria's cheek. Don Francisco cleared his throat.

"Often I see her that way—by the grave. She would not be my wife. She thought never of herself—only of me. She said it was not fitting. Not fitting! Christ! . . . Now God knows where she may be. She went off with Juan Garcia. A good man, a heart of gold. I suppose they married."

He paused a moment. "Love her? The word's cheap. For her and me, it had nothing to do with prattle and poetr)-. I'd rather say I didn't love her. Only a part of me—I don't know how to put it—a part of me—" He broke off. "That's the sum of it."

He sat gazing at the lighted candles on the table.

At last Don Francisco said, "It has been so with us, Maria. We have been one flesh, nay, one soul. I count that the best that life has given

me.

Seiiora de Vargas answered him with her eyes. Then, getting up, she went over to Pedro and kissed him.

"We want only your happiness, my son. If this marriage irks you—"

He shook his head. "No, as the word's used, I love Luisa de Carvajal. We'll be happy as most. We're betrothed. I want to marry her." Seeing the pain in his mother's eyes, he added, "We'll be very happy."

He lighted a bedroom taper from one of the candles on the table, kissed his mother, bowed to Don Francisco, and bade them good night.

They sat for a while troubled. As Sefior de Vargas said, "Time heals wounds, my dear; it cannot rub out scars. He'll carry this one to his death. But, like it or no, scars are the lot of every man."

LXXV/I

Exercising Campeador next day, it was perhaps not altogether accident that Pedro chose the mountains rather than the campina and at last drew rein before the Rosario tavern. Like the ocean, the mind has its obscure, uncharted currents. He had not planned to visit the Rosario, yet here he was; and, being here, he turned for old time's sake into the courtyard.

At once a commotion started. Lubo, the venerable watchdog, whose powerful memory and sense of smell were the same, gave welcoming tongue and tried to renew the gambols of his prime, though in a rheumatic fashion. Other dogs, taking their cue from the chief, barked in aimless politeness. A couple of the ostlers hurried forward with broad grins, while newer hangers-on, who could not claim acquaintance with the great lord, stared and drew closer in hope of a largess. Almost everyone knew who he was, for Pedro's entry into Jaen with the cavalcade of gentlemen and the wondrous Indians had been a public event.

"Ha, Tobal! Ha, Chepito!" he greeted the ostlers. "How is it, lads? It's been a long time since the last time, eh, hombres?"

He tossed a handful of coins among the expectant onlookers, swung from his saddle, and clapped the two grooms on the shoulder, while at the same moment Sancho Lopez appeared in the doorway of the taproom. The innkeeper's bullet head had become grizzled in the past four years, and his paunch had grown rounder, but otherwise he looked shrewd and businesslike as ever. He advanced beaming.

"Captain de Vargas, Your Worship, sir, welcome! Welcome to the Rosario!"

"My old friend!" said Pedro, extending his hand. "Como estd? How goes it, Sancho? By the mass, but it brings back the old days to see you!'

Indeed it brought them back, as did the dark, malodorous taproom into which Lopez ushered him. For an instant he half-expected to see the vivid figure of Catana, tankards in hand and rose in hair, materialize out of the gloom, or to hear the hot drawl of her voice. There was the table where he had first talked with Juan Garcia, and there he had sat bound between the two troopers of the Holy Office. The pelting of memories sobered him, as he followed the innkeeper to a more private corner in the rear beyond the benches of noisy patrons. They stared at his broad shoulders and fine clothes. Then the word passed that this was Captain Pedro de Vargas, and they stared again.