Spanish Serenade (12 page)

When she made no answer to his taunt, he stepped back, gesturing toward the faint light that shone from the hut as an indication that they should return to its shelter. The movement was exaggerated in its gallantry, but no less sincere for that.

Pilar moved ahead of him toward the hut. There should have been satisfaction in the fact that she had distracted him from his worry about Vicente, but she could not feel it. It seemed, instead, that she had gained not a concession, but a reprieve. There was to be no rest. Refugio, brisk with orders and exhortations, waxing acerbic and dulcet by turns and with neither mood safe to question, got them all up on their feet again and back in the saddle. Pilar thought she would be left behind, until she was directed to her horse with a stinging rebuke. They took the small chest of silver because, she surmised, their leader felt it might prove useful, and took Isabel because the young woman refused in near hysteria to remain behind again. They were far along the road, with the sun climbing ladders of pink cloud into a sky of purest cerulean, before anyone thought, or dated, to ask where they were going.

Cadiz was their destination. Cadiz of a thousand years and ten thousand ships, where Phoenician merchants once dreamed of Tyre, where Carthaginians and Romans had saluted their dancing girls in the wine of Jerez, and where the yellow wealth of Aztec gods had been dragged ashore with grunts. Cadiz, where the sea surrounded the Alameda and the Alameda edged the houses of the town, and all was guarded by the rocky headlands of Los Cochinos and Las Puercas.

They were headed for Cadiz, where Don Esteban was to take ship for Louisiana.

No one asked what they would do when they got there. They failed to ask because there was no leisure for it, no breath or will. Pilar thought they had traveled fast before; she had been mistaken. They careened along the mountain roads, crowding less desperate travelers into the ditches, trampling chickens and geese under their horses' hoofs and sending curs yipping. They rode tough hill ponies into heaving, windbroken nags; they ate and drank with one foot in the stirrup, and they did not close their eyes for fear the caked grit of the road dirt would blind them.

Shadowy figures gave them food, led away their exhausted mounts and brought fresh ones. These men talked to Refugio, in low voices, pointing south, explaining, absolving. Sometimes there was silver passed, sometimes not.

The leagues fell away behind them. The day waned and night came again, and still they rode on. Pilar, tired before they started, felt for a long time as if she were on a rack. Gradually she was overcome by a blessed daze through which she could hear and see but no longer feel. Her fingers were claws made to hold reins, and there were patches on her thighs and hips that might never grow skin again. Unlike the others, particularly Baltasar, who snored with closed eyes as he rode, she could not sleep in the saddle. She remained upright on her horse by sheer strength of will, that and a carefully nurtured hostility.

It was Refugio who was the focus of her wrath, El Leon, the man who rode with unflagging strength, who never swayed, never stumbled on the dismount, who continued alert and watchful and endlessly enduring. It was he who drove them, who would not let them tarry or dawdle, not let them stop to sleep, hardly let them breathe. She refused to complain, and bit back every moan of pain and weariness. But in her mind she castigated the man who galloped ahead as inhuman and unfeeling, a monster of arrogance. And she kept her mind half alert by plotting her vengeance.

They came to Cadiz late on the second day from when they had begun. The town walls were in such disrepair that they were falling down, and there was no one at the single landward gate. They threaded their way through the streets until they reached the outer edge of the docks of the bay. They drew up before a low tavern with a creaking sign showing a rooster riding a dolphin. Inside it smelled of sweat and brine, stale tobacco and sour wine. The proprietor was huge, a grossly fat behemoth who sat behind a table swatting flies and the backsides of any barmaid in reach with equal impartiality. He laughed when he heard the name of the ship they were inquiring after. His body shook with his amusement, rolling in waves, cresting here and there like a bilious sea.

There had been a great hustle and bustle about the loading of the ship, he said, for it carried a man who thought himself important and made sure Cadiz had the same opinion. The dock grapevine said he was quick to order the whip and mean with his money; he not only laid stripes on the backs of the stevedores hired to load his carriage, but also on a young manservant he had with him whom he called Vicente. Besides that, he had cheated the dock men out of their reward of a ration of grog. The mighty had their weaknesses, however. The nobleman's carriage had mysteriously been dropped into the sea as it was being loaded on the ship. It had been dragged out again, but the gilt trim and velvet cushions had been ruined. The young manservant was whipped over the incident, but he didn't seem to mind.

Was the ship still in the bay? By all the saints, did they see it? The vessel had cleared the harbor with the morning tide. By now it was far out to sea, well on its way to the West Indies!

The tavern was not designed to accommodate overnight guests. There was a single room under the eaves, but it was used by the barmaids to entertain the customers who wanted something more stimulating than a drink. The tavern keeper did not want to let them have it, and seemed inclined to question why they did not go to an inn. That was until Refugio leaned close and asked in gently satirical tones about the incidence of smuggling in and around the harbor. The fat man choked and and wheezed and looked closer at his customer. “El Leon,” he muttered, his eyes goggling as he turned blue about the mouth, “El Leon.”

The room was theirs. There was an offer to clear the taproom of the tavern, but it was refused since it might cause questions. Food was brought: a half of a roast pig, a dish of paella the size of a cart's wheel, several beehive shaped loaves of bread, and two pitchers of wine. A fire was made on the smoke-blackened hearth of the fireplace at one end of the room, a few tallow candles appeared. When all was prepared, they were left alone.

Pilar ate a sliver or two of the roast pork and drank a cup of wine, but was too tired for more. The heat of the fire was so soporific in combination with the sour drink that she felt dazed, disoriented. She was uncomfortably aware of a strong need for a bath, but since it didn't seem possible to arrange one in their present cramped quarters, she made no mention of it.

There were four beds in the room. They sagged here and there, and the single sheet that covered each was less than clean. Pilar, after inspecting the bed on the far wall away from the fire, grimaced, then stripped off the dirty sheet and threw it into a corner. Picking up the coverlet, she wrapped it around her and sat down on the side of the hair mattress.

For the four available beds, there were six people. It was obvious that two people would have to share a bed with someone else. Who it would be depended on a number of factors, none of which seemed terribly important at the moment. If no one objected to the bed she bad chosen in the next five seconds, Pilar was going to fall into it. After that she didn't really care who joined her.

Isabel was already asleep, sitting upright in a chair with her mouth open in a way that should have looked ridiculous but merely made her appear frail. Enrique, his ebullience dimmed, was blinking sleepily at the fire. Charro was rebraiding a raveling leather lariat with lip-pursed concentration. Baltasar sat forward on a stool with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands. The brigand leader had stayed below, talking to the tavern keeper for some time before he rejoined them. Now he leaned back in an armchair with his long legs stretched out toward the fire and crossed at the ankle. He rested his head on the chair back, gazing up at the ceiling.

Refugio had been drinking; his cup had been refilled times without number. The planes of his face were a little slack and his eyes had a blind, inward-searching look. Regardless, there was not a tremor in his hands as he carried the cup to his lips, and his manner was as commanding as ever. His voice, when he broke the somnolent stillness, was as clear and commanding as a convent bell.

“What say you, my compadres,” he said, “to a sea journey?”

“No,” Baltasar said. “You don't mean—” The big peasant stopped as Refugio turned his head, impaling him with a steel-gray glance.

“Why not?” their leader asked gently. “What is there here that you can't live without? What joy that can't be replaced? Or is it that you relish being hunted?”

“If you mean to follow Don Esteban, we must have money to pay our passage. Then we would need something more for the voyage than the clothes on our backs.”

“We have the silver, and the horses have value even in a quick sale.”

“A ship's a small place,” Baltasar argued, “one where it would be easy to be cornered if some fool discovers who you are.”

“Fools are distressingly common, but are seldom dangerous unless someone is careless. We will not be. Other than that, not everyone knows my face, and names can be changed.” The voice of their leader was patient, yet held a firmness that would not be denied. It was plain that the time would soon come when a choice must be made.

“It may be a year or more before any of us can return, if then. There are people who depend on El Leon. Would you leave the band to fend for itself?”

“How would they fare if I were captured this evening and hanged at daybreak? Our calling has no guarantees, either of allegiance or a leader. And you must know that those who require these things don't last long in it.”

Baltasar stared at Refugio a long moment, then gave a deliberate nod. “It looks as if you're set on it. So be it, then.”

Refugio turned his gaze to Charro. The young man grinned with a slow creasing of the lean sides of his face. “I smell a wind from the Tejas country, and it's calling me home. Try to keep me in Spain.”

“Enrique?”

The slight man gave an elaborate shrug, smoothing his mustache. “It will be different. The women will be different. You speak of changed names, and I have a desire to be a grandee and have people address me as Don Enrique. Promise me this, and I am, as always, your man.”

Refugio smiled with the bright flicker of firelight in his eyes. “Done.”

Pilar rose to her feet. Holding the coverlet around her shoulders, she moved toward the others, deliberately pushing into their circle. Her voice calm, she said, “What of me?”

“You?” Refugio shifted his shoulders so he could turn to face her.

“Yes, me! I have an interest in tracking down the man who killed both my mother and my aunt and who cheated me of all I own.”

“Except the chest of silver.”

“A paltry amount.”

“But I thought you were claiming it.”

There was something in Refugio's gaze upon her that sent a ripple of wariness along her skin; still, she could see no reason to withdraw her request. She answered, “True, but Don Esteban took so much more.”

“Then you won't mind playing the Venus de la Torre in order to try to reclaim it? Naked, if need be?”

The Venus de la Torre, Pilar knew, was a famous sculpture, the representation of a woman totally unclothed and imprisoned inside an ivory tower. The model was said to be the mistress of Count Gonzalvo of Cordoba, a beautiful woman who had been kept a prisoner for years by the eccentric nobleman. So perfect was her form that the count had hired an obscure marble cutter to make a life-sized statue of her. The poor artist had fallen in love with the mistress, however. When his commission was done, he had gone away to make a copy of the original work from memory, a masterpiece that had been purchased and displayed by King Carlos III.

Pilar drew herself up as well as she was able in her ragged coverlet. Her voice scathing, she said, “Don't be absurd!”

“There is no absurdity, only necessity.”

Refugio's gaze was stern, though there was a glint in its depths that might have been caused by either satisfaction or wine. Of one thing there was no doubt, he meant what he said. If his manner had not told her so, Pilar would have been warned by the swiftness with which he had answered her proposal. He had known she would ask to go with his band, and he had been ready. It was galling to be so maneuvered, but there was nothing she could do.

“I suppose you will be the count?” she said in chill tones.

His face was bland as he inclined his head. “I mean to go as Count Gonzalvo, a man heard of by many, but seen by few. To complete this masquerade, I require a Venus. You will travel as my imprisoned mistress, keeper of my heart, señorita, or you will not go at all.”

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