Captain from Castile (39 page)

Then suddenly a couple of bird notes sounded in the woods, and after a time others answered. She closed her ears to them. They grew louder, more insistent. A streak of gray showed along the horizon. Finally, a horse neighed.

In her fear that he should come to blame because of her, she lifted her head at last and kissed him. He awoke slowly, felt her in his arms and drew her closer.

"It is time, seiior/' she whispered.

"Surely not."

"Yes."

"Well then, I'll steal a half hour," he answered. "I'm hungry for you, Catana—mad for you! I can never have enough."

"Nor I—But, seiior, you should go—"

"Bella adorada mia!"

She yielded, felt once more the wave that canceled time sweep over them.

Then, still languid from his embrace, she saw him in the dimness of the hut, drawing on his clothes, buckling his sword.

"Until tonight," he said. "I shall think only of you; I shall feel your kiss on my lips. Until tonight!"

He disappeared into the faint gray outside. Some minutes later, she heard the distant sound of hoofbeats.

Then near and far the trumpets of reveille put an end to dreams.

XL/I

Don Francisco de Vargas had never been submerged nor, indeed, too much impressed by the grandeur of his wife's Italian relatives. Even when, a fugitive and exile from Spain, he reached Florence with Dona Maria, to be warmly received at the magnificent Strozzi Palace in the Via Tomabuoni, he accepted the welcome as an honored guest and not as a poor relation. The Strozzis themselves had been exiles some years before and knew the ups and downs of fortune. They knew also that a renowned soldier, the friend of the Great Captain's, and a kinsman of the Duke of Medina Sidonia, was inferior to no one. Indeed, it was a matter not only of charity but of pride to shelter so illustrious a refugee.

After kissing Clarice de' Medici, the wife of Filippo Strozzi, and after embracing Filippo himself, Don Francisco and Doiia Maria received the condolences of their hosts with simple dignity.

"Aye, Cousins," said the old cavalier, "it was a base affront upon your name and mine. You must help me avenge it. The death of our daughter—" But it was unfitting that this supreme grief should be

exposed to the liveried torch-bearers in the courtyard. "No more of that tonight/' he added in his rusty Italian. And tweaking the ear of a small boy who clung to Madonna Strozzi's skirts, "Who's this for a brave young colt? Piero, eh? The name of our own son. Let's have a look at you, figliuolo. Lord bless me! A fine lad! Big bones and keen eyes! Here's one who will do you honor. Cousins." A prediction borne out by the later fame of Piero Strozzi.

Don Francisco tossed a handful of small coins—the last in his purse —to the flunkeys in the courtyard and, offering an arm to his hostess, limped up the steps into the palace.

There, installed in a suite of high-ceilinged, frescoed rooms, he and Dofia Maria spent most of the year that followed the flight from Spain. Through the deep-set windows, they could look out on the Duomo, which dominated Florence even more then than now; and in the other direction they could see a part of the church of Santa Trinita, where Dofia Maria's Strozzi ancestors lay buried. On pleasant days, they could stroll between palaces down to the Arno or ride for a change to the beautiful Strozzi villa, Le Selve, near Signa. At Cousin Filippo's princely table gathered the beauties and wits, the financiers, scholars, and soldiers of Tuscany. After the jog-trot life of a Spanish provincial town, like Jaen, the return to Florence was more than a little bewildering until, in Don Francisco's phrase, one got back the hang of it.

But yet, overshadowing the Strozzi hospitality, Florentine magnificence, and even the suit for redress which was being pushed in Rome and in Spain, anxiety about Pedro haunted the elder de Vargases day and night.

During August, they waited confidently for his arrival and of an evening liked to make plans for his career. Should he continue on to France and to the place awaiting him in Bayard's household? Should he be trained in the brilliant court that surrounded Lorenzo de' Medici and his young French bride? Don Francisco argued for the former, Doila Maria for the latter. She had her eye on a daughter of the Valori family, with a good dowry and good looks, who was just the match for Pedro if the proper finesse and influence were used to catch her. With this in view, she cunningly urged that if Pedro was to become a soldier he could do no better than attach himself to Giovanni de' Medici of the Black Bands, a young man who was already the foremost captain in Italy.

But August passed, and after it September. The expected arrival did not come. Plan-making languished or sounded forced. In October the unspoken questions could no longer be kept back. Had Pedro fallen in

the mountains of Jaen? Had he perished in some other way? Had he been recaptured by the Inquisition?

At night, in their square, canopied bed, Don Francisco would gently say, "Take heart, wife. No weeping. Now, now! All will be well." But often a tear would steal down his own lean face.

Once when he tried to distract her by talking of their petition to the Pope, she burst out, "Why should we care, who have lost our children? I'd rather die and be with them. What does vindication matter to us now?" And he could find nothing to reply.

It was noticed at this time that, when he considered himself alone, Don Francisco stooped and he leaned hard on his cane, though he was quick to draw himself up, underlip out and chin defiant, if he found that he was watched.

Four months had passed since the escape from Jaen. Late autumn, cold and damp in the poorly heated, cavernous rooms of the palace, shut in, and with it despair. Excusing themselves to the com.pany below, conscious of the pity which confirmed their own fears, Sefior de Vargas and his v;ife retired early these days, and would sit for a while on either side of an ineffective olive-wood fire keeping vigil over memories.

On one of these evenings, casually (as such things happen), a servant knocked at the door, entered, and bowed.

"A letter for Your Excellency. His lordship has paid the messenger."

Used to letters regarding his suit in Rome, Don Francisco received this one without much interest and, when the servant had gone out, laid it on the table. "I'll read it in the morning," he said. "Candlelight strains my eyes." But noticing the weathered look of the paper and the half-washed-out handwriting, he brought it a moment closer to the flame.

"What is it, sir?" asked Dona Maria, struck by the sudden intentness of his face.

Without waiting to break the wax that held the edges of the paper together, Don Francisco ripped them apart and spread out the letter with trembling hands.

"What is it, sir? Can't you answer? Have you lost your tongue? What's wrong?"

"From Pedro," he said in a half-voice. "From our son."

She was out of her chair and at his side in one movement, as if her plump little person had taken wings. She snatched at the letter.

"Nay, wife, nay—we'll read it together. Nay—"

Heads close, they followed the labored, schoolboy writing, their lips forming the words as they read.

"Honored Sefior, my Father—Honored Sehora, my Mother—"

It was the letter which Pedro had written at Sanlucar and had entrusted to the master of the Genoese ship. Delayed by storm, forgotten in inns, sold by one carrier to another in speculation on the reward which the Strozzi address guaranteed, it had at last found its way from Andalusia to Tuscany.

When she had finished reading, Dofia Maria dropped to her knees and lifted her clasped hands. "I thank Thee, O God! Sweet Lord, I thank Thee! Blessed Madonna, I thank Thee!"

Don Francisco reread the letter. To hide his emotion, he uttered a loud "Humph!"—but could not conceal the ring in his voice. "So that's it! The cursed Islands after all! And with that ne'er-do-well son of Martin Cortes too! A profitable venture they'll have of it no doubt! If I could get my hands on the young rascal, I'd paint his back."

Maria de Vargas broke off her thanksgiving. "Out upon you!" she scolded. "Shame on you for an unnatural father! When we thought him dead! When he's alive and on honorable service—that is, if he is still alive! Nero, Sefior husband, was a lamb compared to you. Attila—"

"Aye," the other interrupted, in such high spirits that he could not keep from teasing her, "I knew we would come to that. If you had not so bullied and be-Neroed me when I was laboring upon Pedrito's education he would have learned obedience; he would be with us now instead of gallivanting with scapegraces beyond the Ocean Sea. Where is Bianca Valori now, not to speak of our other plans?"

"It doesn't matter." Doila Maria resumed her pious ejaculations. "Saint Christopher, patron of wayfarers—"

"I'm so downhearted," continued the old gentleman, his lips twitching, "that I've a great mind to give over our suit to His Holiness."

Dona Maria's virtues did not include a sense of humor. She rounded on him again. "Are you mad, sir? Now more than ever we must press it, so that our son may return home in honor." But noting the gap-toothed smile which her husband could no longer restrain, she said reproachfully, "You're a rogue, my lord."

He burst out laughing. "Yes, wife, to be honest, the news makes me young again. I thank God for it humbly with all my heart."

And next day his restored bearing proclaimed good news even before he boasted that his son, Pedro, had joined a renowned captain, one Hernan Cortes, in a venture of conquest overseas, from which he could expect to return with great honor and profit.

The suit for rehabilitation against the charges made by the Inquisitorial Court of Jaen proved long rather than difficult, and long only because of the distance involved between various points in Spain and

Italy. Clarice Strozzi's uncle was none other than Pope Leo himself; another kinsman was the Cardinal Giulio de' Medici, the man of action behind the pontifical throne; Cardinal Strozzi and Maria de Vargas were cousins. As for Don Francisco, he was distantly related to the Duke of Medina Sidonia, and the charges against him reflected on the purity of that grandee's descent. It was manifestly absurd that the kindred of such Christian princes and potentates should be accused of heresy. Apart from ties of blood, which were stronger then than now, these charges became a personal affront to pope, cardinal, and duke, so that they had a selfish interest in quashing them at once.

In addition, a political event of the first importance incidentally favored Francisco de Vargas's cause. During the first six months of 1519, the rivalry between Charles of Spain and Francis of France for the then vacant elective office of Holy Roman Emperor absorbed the statesmen of western Europe. In this election, the Pope had an important voice, and a letter from His Holiness complaining of sundry wrongs and injustices done to his well-beloved son, Francisco de Vargas, a subject and pensioner of the Catholic King, would receive more immediate attention at the Spanish court than might otherwise have happened.

Thus, the Suprema of the Inquisition at Madrid, powerful as it was, found itself under far more pressure than such a trifling affair was worth. If the de Vargases, cut off from help, had perished in the prison or auto-da-fe at Jaen, there would have been no trouble. But since they had been allowed to escape and to bring into play such capital artillery as the Head of the Christian Church and the King of Spain, not to mention cardinals and grandees, the Suprema, inflexible as a rule in supporting the authority of its provincial tribunals, was prepared for once to admit a mistake. The holy Ignacio de Lora had been guilty of no injustice, but he had apparently been deceived. Though the de Vargases themselves were not without blame in violently resisting the representatives of the Inquisition, which would have established their innocence in due time, the Suprema graciously consented to overlook this fault, to nullify the charges, and to restore all property which had been confiscated. It did more. Glad of a scapegoat, it expressed official censure of de Silva's "ill-considered and intemperate zeal." And the censure of the Holy OflBce cast a shadow which a man's friends were apt to avoid.

But exoneration was not enough: the case demanded vengeance and damages. For this, the Duke of Medina Sidonia, Don Juan Alonso de Guzman, whose pride of blood was involved, made himself responsible.

Since unhappily de Silva had by now sailed for the Islands to rejoin de Lora, personal satisfaction must wait; but a suit at law was brought against him, and the small remnant of his property which he had not invested in his overseas speculation was sequestered. It was well for de Silva's peace of mind that, while adventuring in the New World, he did not know of the disaster which had befallen him at home.

All this activity took well over a year, so that Pedro and Cortes's mad army had scaled the mountains and were engaged in the desperate battles of Tlascala before Don Francisco, restored in honor and fortune, made ready his return to Jaen. He met success as he had met misfortune, too proud to wear emotion on his sleeve. To his simplicity, the outcome of his suit was owing to its justice, exactly as the election of Charles V to the Empire illustrated the triumph of right over wrong. Of course the Pope would sorrow over crimes committed in the holy name of the Church. Of course Don Juan Alonso would leap to the defense of a kinsman. Of course His Caesarean Majesty, the seal of whose letter Don Francisco kissed before opening it, remembered his services to Spain and was graciously pleased to extend protection. The selfish motives—family pride and political expediency—which helped Senor de Vargas more than the justice of his cause, did not occur to him. He pictured the world in the whites and blacks of his own forthright mind.

The pleasant year of exile passed. Don Francisco gave the benefit of his military advice to the Signoria of Florence, and he held an honored place among the grave and reverend elders of the city. He lamented the death of the Chief of State, Lorenzo de' Medici, and marched in his funeral procession. He rejoiced at the election of the Emperor. But since peace hung on, and no war arose to distract him, his heart was in Spain, and he planned to sail from Leghorn in September, when a final event gave a memorable close to the sojourn in Italy.