Captain from Castile (51 page)

With wings on their heels, the two captains and Marina hastened back through the hall-like rooms to bring the great news to the garrison. Soon cannon, drums, and trumpets would be saluting the victory. Then would come the Te Deum. Verily God had delivered His people out of the jaws of death.

"How now, senora?" Pedro exclaimed suddenly.

On the threshold of the outer terrace. Dona Marina had stopped and was leaning against the side of the doorway.

"It is faintness, sir." The woman's tawny face looked almost white.

"Faintness? Are you unwell, Mistress?"

"No." The woman's eyes shifted from de Vargas to Alvarado, then back. "I am afraid."

"Of what?" Alvarado gaped. "Now, of all times—"

"Send a messenger," she went on urgently. "Warn our General that he must not enter this city. Let us rather join him."

The Captain-in-Chief laughed. "You are moon-struck, Marina. What ails you?"

"What I saw behind Montezuma's eyes. It was not fear. My lords, he rejoices indeed at the return of Cortes and all his army. He prepares a bitter welcome—"

In front of them, the courtyard was buzzing around a man who now broke loose and came up the terrace steps. It was Luis Alonso, who had marched with Cortes. Dust-stained but wreathed in smiles, he saluted.

"A letter and greetings from the General, Your Worships. I must

have word too with the Lord Montezuma. Wait till you hear the news!

By God, did we put them in the sack—the Narvaez crowd—all of

them! What a clean sweep. Your Worships!"

He ran on, while Alvarado opened the letter. It surprised Alonso

that his news did not seem new.

"God be thanked!" said the Chief Captain. "But how did you get

through the lines, friend Luis? You notice that we've been under attack

since you left."

"By the southern causeway," the other answered. "It's wide open." Marina's voice broke in desolately. "My lords, the trap is open." "Well then," grinned Alvarado, his eyes on the letter, "it won't have

to wait long. Let it close! Twelve hundred Castilian gentlemen, not

counting the Tlascalans. A hundred horse. Thirty cannon. I pity the

trap."

L//I

On MrosuMMER's Day not three weeks later, the garrison lined the walls of the compound to catch from far off on the southern causeway the marching beat of drums, piping of fifes, flourish of trumpets, clatter of horses, that announced the incoming army.

The sounds approached, distinct against the background of a vast silence. The crowds which but yesterday had choked the central square and avenues of the city had vanished. Tenochtitlan lay apparently deserted.

But to the weary listeners no other music on earth would have sounded so sweet. In spite of Alvarado's threats to Montezuma, the siege had not been raised until yesterday. It was as if the Aztecs, having prevented the garrison from marching out, did not wish to discourage Cortes from marching in. Now the long vigil was over. With Cortes once more at the helm and an army tripled in numbers to support him, the enterprise had reached its final, prosperous goal.

The sound of the marching grew louder. Straining their eyes, the watchers could at last see the front of the column advancing up the southern avenue. But, as more of it came into sight, what a column! Rank on rank of steel caps, arquebusiers, arbalesters, pikemen. And the horsemen! Used to their own meager squadron, it seemed to the garrison like a forest of lances.

"Trumpeters, sound off!" Pedro shouted from his vantage point at

the comer of the parapet. A welcoming flourish answered from the courtyard. "Gunners, blow your matches! Fire!" For an instant every other sound was eclipsed by the thunder of the salute. Then, emerging from it, the oncoming march rang louder.

Standing next to Pedro, Catana squeezed his arm. "Senor, doesn't it remind you of that day at Villa Rica when you and I—But this is much more wonderful."

He nodded. "We didn't expect it a month ago—eh, vida tnia? Note me the appointments of these new cavaliers, the equipment! Gad, we're but ragamuffins by the side of them! Just the same, our comrades are marching in the van, as they ought. They're the stuff—"

"The General!" she broke in. "I can see him—"

"Where?"

"Behind Senor Corral with the banner."

"Yes. Cdspita, he's got a new suit of harness! . . . And there's Olid, Morla, Tapia, Ordas. Sandoval! By God, there's Sandoval!" Pedro cupped his hands. "Hola, Gonzalo de Sandoval!" he shouted, but his voice did not carry. "Ha, the good comrades!"

Catana laughed. "See there! See! If Master Botello hasn't got himself a horse. He always wanted one. It's a beauty. He's riding high as any of the captains. . . . There's Seiior Ortiz. I wonder if he's made a new ballad."

Names passed from man to man down the line of onlookers. Hands and caps were waved.

"Gentlemen," barked Alvarado from the courtyard, "down here and fall in! Aprisa! Will you greet our company like a parcel of women on a roof? Company formation! Captain de Vargas, stay where you are and give me the signal for opening the gates."

Standing alone, Pedro watched the front ranks draw close, individual faces becoming distinct, the lance points of the horsemen on a level with his face.

"By God, there's the Redhead!" bawled the familiar voice of Sandoval. "Ha, Redhead!"

A score of gauntlets were raised, a volley of Ha's and Hola's went up from the oncoming riders. Cortes himself smiled and waved. Pedro saluted him. But at the same moment de Vargas stiffened. That cavalier on the handsome bay to the rear of his friends—the tilted eyebrows, pale face . . . And that priest with the square beard beside him on the genet? They were both staring up at him.

Fiery particles danced in front of Pedro's eyes. He went cold, then, hot. His hands were shaking. It couldn't be true. A trick of-the brain.

"How about it?" called Alvarado. Pedro signaled to open the gates.

No, it was not a delusion. The pair of horsemen were real. They were still watching him—and de Silva smiled.

Diego de Silva and the Inquisitor of Jaen, Ignacio de Lora!

LIV

It was characteristic of Father Bartolome de Olmedo that even the bustle of arrival did not prevent him from meeting Pedro, as the latter came down from the walls. One glance at his preoccupied face told the friar that de Vargas had recognized his two arch-enemies among the incoming troops. He would have passed Olmedo if the priest had not laid a detaining hand on his arm.

"Ha, Father!" Pedro exclaimed. "I crave a thousand pardons, but I had something on my mind." And making an effort, he added, "What joy to see you and the comrades again! My faith, you've been sadly missed!"

Gradually Olmedo's features replaced those of de Silva and the Inquisitor which were absorbing him, and he noted the leaner, tanned, worn look \vhich the friar had brought back from the campaign.

"We've a deal to tell each other," Pedro went on conventionally. "It seems that your management didn't prevent bloodshed after all, eh?"

"No, my son; but it lessened it. The fight at Cempoala would not have been so easily won if I had not gilded certain fingers and persuaded certain people. It's clear that, for the sake of peace—at least among Spaniards—Heman Cortes is the only possible leader in New Spain." He broke off. "But let's deal frankly with each other, son Pedro. There are more pressing matters. I know what's in your mind."

By now, de Vargas had recovered enough from what he had seen on the wall to gather his wits together; and, as he did so, his eyes sharpened. Certain points which had been in doubt were becoming clearer.

"Frankness, by all means. Father Bartolome. Were you frank with me when you left here six weeks ago?"

The friar shook his head. "If you mean that I did not tell you all I knew, I was not frank—no."

"You knew then that Diego de Silva and this Inquisitor were with Narvaez?"

"Yes, their names were on the list we got from Guevara."

"And that was the reason that Garcia and I were left here, eh?"

"Yes, for your own good, my son."

"Thanks. And for that reason, you had me renew my vow?"

"Yes."

Pedro's laugh jarred. "Frankness comes better late than never. Even so, I thought you were above such tricks. But all priests are the same. They must be subtle; they must play chess with truth. I suppose you couldn't tell me why in this case. That's asking too much."

Olmedo faced him without flinching. In spite of his stubby nose, sunburned at the tip, his squat figure and dust-covered robe, he still looked impressive.

"No, not too much. And I'll tell you without subtlety. It was because I am a priest, because I hate bloodshed, and because I love you. Is that plain enough? You had taken a vow on which God's pardon for you depended. Should I let you forget it? Should I dangle temptation before your eyes by letting you go to Cempoala? As for Garcia, I wished to save him. You and I know what the penalty is for killing a priest— here and hereafter."

Pedro stared into the unblinking, honest eyes of the friar.

"But what have you gained?" he burst out. "The men are here— penned in with us here! Is that better than if Juan and I had met them at Cempoala?"

Olmedo shrugged. "I don't know. All I could do was play for time. I gained that much, hoping that matters would clear themselves. They haven't. What happens now depends on you."

"If you think," Pedro frothed over, "that Juan and I are going to house with men who have done to death the people we loved, you're mistaken. It's too much for flesh and blood to stand."

The friar drew close and laid his forefinger on Pedro's chest. "Nevertheless, that's what you're going to stand. Captain de Vargas. There was a time when I could have handed you over to the Inquisition. Instead, I imposed a penance which you accepted and which was heavier than you thought. Now you are going to perform that penance. And if you love Garcia, you will use every means in your power to keep him quiet. . . . Harken. Whatever you think of them, de Silva and Father Ignacio have great credit with these new men from Cuba. It touches the life of this enterprise that there be no breach between them and us. Nor will Hernan Cortes permit any. He returns in glory from this campaign. It has gone to his head. Now, more than ever, his

ambition is in the saddle, and it will brush anything out of its way. A word to the wise, son Pedro."

De Vargas straightened up. "Do you think that fear—"

"Nonsense!" Olmedo interrupted. "I thought you loved your friend, Juan Garcia. As for you, I hold you to your oath."

Through the great courtyard, now that the ranks had broken, eddied an immense jubilation: reunion of old friends, back-slapping, embraces, hubbub of voices; the newcomers strolling about, meeting members of the garrison; horses being led off to their stalls; groups forming and reforming like a kaleidoscope. From the comer near the wall, Pedro gazed at it blindly.

"What about de Silva and the priest?" he muttered. "Have you preached at them? Or perhaps we're to be the only Christians and let them choose their time to knife us?"

Olmedo shook his head. "No. It wasn't hard to make them see that you and Garcia are in the favor of the General and of our company— that they're not m.asters here. They're content to forget bygones." The friar was honest enough to add, "Or so they say."

"Cursed generous of them!" returned Pedro. He stared at the pavement a moment. "Well, Father Bartolome, the saints help me to keep my vow! It's bitter hard." He ran his sleeve across his forehead. "And I'll do what I can with Juan Garcia—though how that will be, God knows. But let one of those hrihones raise a finger, as I hope they will"—Pedro shook with passion—"let them step one inch across the line, and I hold myself absolved. And it will be my greatest pleasure—" He choked himself off, adding dully, "And there's an end on it."

Having got all he could expect for the moment, Olmedo nodded. But the end, as Pedro had put it, had an immediate postscript. An explosion burst out in the courtyard, a roar of voices, hurrying of feet, the swaying back and forth of a group in the center, out of which issued an animal-like raging devoid of any human tone. Then, staggering back from the group, as if thrown off by a rotating wheel, appeared the figure of Ignacio de Lora. His hands were clutching his throat; his robe was torn; and he had a smear of blood on his face. Meanwhile, the knot of struggling men scuffled round and round, opened and closed, like the staves of a barrel on the point of bursting.

With a cry of "God-a-mercy," Pedro raced toward the tumult, which widened rapidly as other men joined in.

"Get him away!" howled a voice from the tussle. "Get him out of sight!" And a couple of men, detaching themselves, began hurrying Father Ignacio toward one of the buildings.

At the same moment, the group blew apart, its several members reeling backward—and Garcia emerged, roaring, frothing, his face crimson, his eyes rolling for a glimpse of his quarry. Catching sight of de Lora, now fifty paces distant, he bounded after him.

Pedro strained forward but could not hope to overtake Garcia in the second or two of grace that remained. The men on either side of de Lora, warned by the shouts from behind, jumped to one side, leaving the Inquisitor alone in the path of his pursuer, who came on head down like a charging bull. Murder seemed inevitable, when, in the last fraction of time, a steel-clad figure threw itself between. Crouched low and with legs braced wide, it presented an obstacle that struck Garcia slightly above the knees and sent him headlong crashing to the pavement. As he rose, a two-hundred-pound weight of flesh, bone, and armor landed between his shoulders and pinned him down.

It was Sandoval. His rough bellow mingled with Garcia's raging.

"How now, companero! How now, you mad fool!" And to de Lora, who stood rooted several paces away, "Get along with Your Reverence! Disappear for God's sake! . . . Ha, Redhead! And in good time, too!"

With a tremendous heave, Garcia struggled to his knees, though Sandoval still had an arm around his throat. Pedro gripped him from the other side. But Garcia was apparently unconscious of them. His eyes were fixed on the retreating figure of Ignacio de Lora, who at that moment vanished around the corner of a building. Then he relaxed slightly and looked around.