Captain from Castile (79 page)

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He sat down and drew her upon his knees. "Now." "Well, senor, you ought to know. I couldn't stay behind when you left New Spain. I had to be where I could see you sometimes. I couldn't live else. And I thought just seeing you wouldn't hurt, if you didn't know I was here. Juan and I heard of a trading ship when we were in the southeast country. We reached Jaen before you. I saw you ride into town."

"You did! But, Catana, the New World? You said you wanted to stay. You refused to marry me. I don't understand." She half-smiled. ''Don't you understand, querido?'' "Yes, I was a fool not to make you marry me at Goyoacan." "No, sehor, you'd have done wrong if you had, and I was right to refuse. But, listen. I heard your talk here that day with Sancho Lopez. Until then I intended that you should never know I was in Spain. But your tone of voice—ah, senor, it told me more even than the words. I could hear that you weren't happy. Then I decided that after your marriage, when you sailed for Italy, I should be on that ship. We would make the campaign together."

She stopped. "Who told you I was here? How did you find out?" "You told me." He paused to kiss the surprised droop of her mouth. "I'm probably the world's poorest schoolmaster, and you're the densest pupil. At least there's no worse writer. All I had to do was compare your letters to me. I was dense myself not to have thought of it before." She flushed a little. "And I so proud, believing it was well-written." "Well-written enough to save my life. Except for you, Gatana mia, it's odds I'd have given work to the headsman in Valladolid."

"Then who cares if I'm not learned!" She put both arms around his neck. "Sehor, you'd better give me that beating you promised. I'll be crying anyway in half a minute for happiness."

They were too absorbed to notice that the latch rose cautiously, and an exploring eye peered in. Then Garcia flung open the door with eclat. "Now, that's the way it should be!" he proclaimed. "And it shouldn't ever have been any other way."

Pedro stood up with one arm still around Gatana and embraced Garcia with the other. "I cry quarter. But be noble, Juan. Don't crow over me. You were right and I was wrong, and so to the devil with bygones!"

"It's easy said," the other grumbled. "Here we are, like fish out of water, when we ought to be taking up land in New Spain. And you've got to marry the Lady Luisa, now that you've gone this far. With lodgings for Gatana on the side. None of this would have happened

except for your stubbornness. She'd be your lawful wife instead of a kept woman, and we'd all be grandees in Mexico."

"I don't care," said Catana, fist on hip.

"No, you wouldn't," Garcia returned. "You haven't sense enough. But what about me? The gold we put by in Coatl's country won't last forever. What'll I do?"

"Plenty," Pedro nodded. Garcia's words recalled him from the happy present to the still happier future. "We all have plenty to do, and fast. Maybe you don't know that I've been appointed by His Majesty to take the imperial rescript to Cortes."

"Aye. So we'll ride for Seville as soon as the men I left at Linares have caught up. Then I must go back to Valladolid to receive His Majesty's letters and collect my Indians. I could never face Coatl without them."

"But that means—" The incredible news filtered slowly through Garcia's dazed mind. ''Does it mean you're sailing for New Spain, comrade?''

"I hadn't supposed the General was any place else."

"But then—then—" Garcia drew a deep breath and let it out in a roar. He lifted both fists above his head and brought them down on the table. "Then—New Spain! Holy saints! The three of us! Carrying the great news! The comrades! The General! I can't—I can't take it in! Blast me, I—"

He stopped short and his face fell. "But the Lady Luisa? You're betrothed. It's as good as married. What'll you do—"

"That reminds me." Pedro turned to Catana. "Where's the dress you bought in Seville?"

She pointed to a chest in the corner. "There."

"Well then, strip off those things and get into it."

"But why, querido? It's late—"

"Because I want you to. Mistress. That's reason enough."

"Well, of course—"

Pedro and Garcia turned their backs. There was a hurried sound of undressing, a thump of shoes taken off.

"But I'll give you another reason," Pedro went on. "It's that no priest will marry you in breeches."

"Priest!"

"Yes, priest. There's one in the village down the road. We'll pull him out of bed by the big toes if necessar)'."

"Priest!" Catana gasped. "Why?"

"Because you know very well I vowed not to sleep with you again until we married; and if I don't sleep with you tonight, I renounce salvation."

"Seiior, you can't break your pledge to the Lady Luisa! You'd be dishonored. I didn't mean to interfere—. No, senor, God forbid! I can't let—"

"Chiton!" Out of patience, Pedro turned on her. Unfortunately she had got no farther in her change of clothes than a shift much too short for protection.

"Please!" breathed Catana, fumbling in the chest for her petticoat.

"Please!" he fumed, unbuckling his belt. "I'll give you something to say please about, Mistress. You're taking it on yourself again to tell me what to do and what not to do. I'm going to settle this once and for all. If I have to turn you under my arm, so be it." And suiting the action to the words, he grasped Catana in the position indicated.

"Sefior, I didn't mean—Ho! Alas! It isn't proper—ouch!—before Juan. Ay de mi! I'll do anything . . . you want ... if you'll only let me . . . San-ta Ma-ria! . . . put on my petticoat."

"Well, then, remember." He released her and turned his back again.

"That," observed Garcia, "is what you ought to have done a year ago.

Pedro agreed. "Yes, and I'll know better for the future. Juan, see that the horses are ready."

"All I meant to say," Catana ventured in a small voice after Garcia had left, "was that I love you so and that a great marriage—Nay, I didn't mean it."

He had turned again, but this time he found her in yellow damask that set ofT the blackness of her hair and eyes.

He stood gazing a moment.

"Reina mia! You're beautiful!" He strode to her; then, dropping to his knee, he pressed her hand to his lips and laid his cheek against it. "God! How I love you! I wish there was some other word."

She pushed his hair back from his forehead. "You mustn't kneel, my lord. Please. . . . But you can help me fasten the back of this dress. . . . You really like it?"

He fumbled awkwardly with the buttons. Then, noticing a movement of Her hands, he frowned. "Did I beat you so hard?"

"No." She turned her head to kiss him. "It was nothing. . . . To think of me! Married to you! Sefiora de Vargas! . . . Are we sleeping here tonight?"

"I should say not. A bug-ridden sleep we'd have of it. No, dulce miaj we're sleeping at my father the Alcalde's."

She swung around, her face pale.

"My dear lord, not that! I wouldn't dare! I'd die of shame! Please, don't make me—"

"I certainly shall. You're riding with me on Campeador. As for shame, don't speak that word again. You and I are sleeping at my father's house. It's where my wife belongs."

LXXXVH

A FLUSTERED COUNTRY PRIEST, tom between fear of the Bishop, whose ofHce he was usurping, and fear of Garcia's big fists, married Pedro and Catana in the parsonage of the near-by hamlet. Garcia acted as best man; Sancho Lopez gave away the bride; and Cipriano Davila served as an additional witness.

When it came to the ring, Pedro slipped off the heavy signet ring from his thumb and dropped it loose over Catana's finger.

"Never you mind," he whispered. "I'll have it made tight for you."

"But it's your coat of arms."

"Your coat of arms too. Dona Catana mia,"

He could see her lips repeat the new title, dona. Then she smiled faintly and shook her head.

"Do you take this woman?"

Pedro intended no irreverence, but the priest started at the loudness of his answer.

And after the final blessing, when they kissed each other, it was as if they had never kissed before.

"My dear lord!" she whispered. "My dear, dear lord!"

"How now!" roared Garcia at last. "Are you going to stand there forever? Aren't the rest of us to have a chance, by the mass?"

Congratulation of Pedro and the kissing of the bride began. Everybody made the most of the opportunity and kissed her until her lips burned.

''Jesus Maria!" she laughed. "Pohre de mi! I'm so scratched by the beards of you homhres that my mouth feels as if it stretched from ear to ear. Sangre de Dios — "

She caught herself and shot a troubled glance at Pedro.

He pinched her ear. "You'll never stop cursing, sweetheart. It's the brand of the company."

The priest brought wine, and healths were drunk. Sancho Lopez

presented a tankard. "If Doiia Catana will do me the honor," he bowed.

''Dona Catana? Didn't you bring me up, Sancho? What's become of Long-Legs?"

The innkeeper shook his bullet head and grinned, but he answered, "That's a long time ago, your ladyship."

His heartiness held a new note of respect. Except that she took it as a tribute to Pedro, Catana wasn't sure that she liked it.

"Well, to me," put in Garcia, "you're still Catana Perez of the army, the lass who cooked my meat and washed my shirts and held my head on her knees when I was in the bilboes. With all respect to His Excellency here"—he rapped Pedro on the chest—"that seems more of a title to me than any damned dona. . . . But what's the lay now, comrades?" he went on seriously. "I take it Jaen will be too cold or too hot after this to hold you. We start for Seville when?"

Pedro grinned. "SeemxS to be in the stars that whenever you and I leave Jaen, we leave it in flight. You and Cipriano will meet Catana and me a league out of town on the Cordoba road at sunup day after tomorrow."

"Hey?" returned Garcia. "Meet you and Catana? Aren't you staying at the tavern?"

De Vargas tried to sound casual. "No. Do you think I'd steal off without the blessing of my parents, without presenting my wife? C as pit a!'"

Garcia shook his head. "I suppose not. But if I know your honored father, the Alcalde, it's not too sure we'll meet on the Cordoba road dav after tomorrow."

"Pooh!"

"Pooh, nothing. Suppose he doesn't approve of"—Garcia coughed —"the change of plans? You might end in the clink, my boy. He has the power." The big man added significantly, "Why not leave Catana with me, at least until—"

"No! From now on, Juan, I'm not leaving her with you. We're going to take what comes together. How about it, querida?"

She laid her cheek against his shoulder.

In the upward spiral of his happiness, it seemed to Pedro that their ride through the warm night was much too short, though they rode at a walk. Catana's arms were around him, her thumbs hooked in his belt; her hair brushed his neck. Even the uncertainty as to what reception he would be given at home could not overcloud these radiant facts. He realized that to present Catana as his wife, in view of the betrothal to Luisa, demanded more consideration from his parents than

had his confessions six weeks ago. He was proposing to leave them in a pickle of embarrassmentj while avoiding it himself. But the present was too absorbing for him to be concerned even by the immediate future.

"Please don't trot," Catana had said after a hundred yards from the parsonage.

"Why not? You won't fall off. It'll make you hold me tighter."

"I'll do that anyway, but please don't trot. Alas!"

He pulled up. "What's wrong?"

She hesitated. "You ought to know."

He laughed and, detaching her hand from his belt, he bent low enough to kiss the palm, then continued to hold it, interlacing his fingers with hers.

"That was a blessed strapping I gave you, alma mia. I thank God for it. Otherwise, you'd still be hemming and hawing and worrying about me. It cleared your mind of the great-marriage stuff. As if your little toe, a single hair of you, didn't mean more to me than all the blazons of the world! I've learned that at least. Do you know what I wear under my shirt, eh?"

"x\o, my lord."

"That last letter you wrote me at Coyoacan. By the mass, it's been read often enough since then! But now— vive Dios! —to have you back again! And my own wife! Before God and man! My own seiiora! Lord, you'll get little sleep tonight. Mistress. . . . Did you ever think of me?" he added provocatively. "I'll warrant you didn't, you false slut."

She pressed her face against his back. "Not once, not a single time, curse me else!"

"How! What do you mean? It's well for you you're behind me."

"I mean just what I say, querido. How could I think of you once when I thought of you always, every minute?"

He hooked his reins over the peak of the saddle and turned. "I can't go another moment without a kiss."

Campeador philosophically stopped at this point and took to cropping grass by the roadside. It was several minutes before the slow progress was resumed.

"Sefior," she said, her arms closer around him, "do you think it's possible that Our Lord might send Ninita back if we prayed very hard? Of course I'd have to bear her again. But do you think Our Lord would?"

"Faith, I do," said Pedro. "Hasn't He brought you back? Hasn't He always been good to us? Let's pray Him for it tonight."

But for the most part, the ride passed in a silence much more eloquent than words. Pedro de Vargas could not have expressed the infinite horizons that seemed opening before him any more than one can put music into speech. When he spoke again, the tone of his voice rather than his words expressed him.

"By God, we'll take up land southwest of Cuernavaca. We'll import cattle. I say there's more in livestock than in gold. Besides, we have enough gold. Juan Garcia must live near us—he and others of the comrades. That way we can make a head against any Indian upflare. I'll build you a great house, muchacha, and you'll give me kids to fill it." Her arms tightened, but she didn't answer. "What are you thinking about?" he added.

"Partly of you," she said, "and partly of your parents. We're almost at the city gate. Sefior, I'm so afraid."

"You afraid! You'd thumb your nose at the devil. What are you afraid of?"

"Your senora mother. I think I'm even more frightened of her than of Don Francisco. They're such great people, and I'm only—"

"You're my wife, remember that. Don't worry, querida, we'll man-age.

And yet now that the ordeal was close, he began to feel more than a qualm himself. If his father took a stand against this marriage, it might come to more than a tongue-lashing. Pedro feared only two people in the world, Cortes and Don Francisco de Vargas.

It took some time at the town gate before the keeper opened. The watchmen were calling one o'clock when Pedro stabled Campeador in the mews behind the de Vargas house. Then he led Catana across a rear garden and through the back door to which he had the key. By this time he felt a trickle of cold sweat under his armpits.

The house was utterly quiet as they reached the central patio and started climbing the stairs to the second floor. Only some night tapers were burning.

"I'll take you up to my room," he whispered. "Then we'll see what's to be done."

But in the upper corridor, a page, sleeping athwart the threshold of Don Francisco's door, started up, gaped at Catana, and faltered a greeting.

"Lights here," said Pedro, bracing himself and entering his room.

When the astonished page had brought a candle, Catana gazed at the unfamiliar walls, at the canopied bed. Her knees felt weak.

"I believe I'll sit down."

Pedro took one of her hands. "Why, you're cold as ice, sweeting. Nay, do not fear. If I had thought—"

"Back in Jaen are you, hijo mio!" exclaimed a familiar voice at the threshold. "Back, and no word to announce you! By good luck, I happened to be awake. Nay, are you hurt? That bandage . . ."

The voice stopped on a breath, changed its tone to steel.

"By'r Lady! I seem to be intruding. What woman's this?"

Lxxxv;»

It did not impair the dignity of Don Francisco de Vargas to be wearing a skullcap of velvet, which he put on at night, and a dark chamber gown. He looked like an old falcon in the robes of a judge. His black eyes challenged on either side of his beaked nose; his lower lip drooped.

"Well?" he demanded, while Pedro was searching for his tongue and Catana gripped the sides of her chair. "Well?"

Glancing at Catana, Pedro came to himself.

"I have the honor, Sefior Father, to present my wife, Doiia Catana de Vargas y Perez."

Self-controlled as he was, Don Francisco could not help a start. It was a moment before he breathed, "How!"

Pedro burst into explanations. The old gentleman continued to stare at poor Catana, who would have been happy if the ceiling had fallen to hide her from those piercing eyes. When Pedro stopped, Don Francisco took a step toward her.

"Catana Perez!" he said in a voice which might mean anything.

At that, Catana's nerve failed. She dropped to her knees in front of him.

"Forgive, Your Excellency! Forgive! It was my fault. I shouldn't have come back. I couldn't help it. I only wanted to see my lord again, not to have—not to have this happen. Don't blame him. Your Excellency. Forgive—"

Terror made her speechless when she felt herself gripped under the arms by two hands of steel and lifted to her feet. Terror then changed to blank amazement when Don Francisco, having held her a moment by the shoulders at arm's length, drew her to him in a hug, and kissed her on both cheeks.

"By my honor!" he said. "By my honor! Forgive, hi'ja mia? Forgive what, in God's name? That you saved my life and honor? Nay, better,

that you saved the lives of my wife and son? That you loved the scapegrace and bore him a child? That you are back to give him happiness and mettle again? I thank God that I can now thank you for everything!"