The cook of castamar, p.54
The Cook of Castamar, page 54
Now that sunset was approaching, she felt a strong sense of trepidation as she waited for Don Melquíades to call for her. What have I got to say to a fool like that? she repeated to herself. Deciding that the best thing she could do was go to bed early, she asked one of the maids to inform the head butler that she was retiring to her bedroom until tomorrow. A timely retreat was no different from a victory. Don Melquíades could not visit her in her room without causing a scandal. She walked down the corridor, feeling a sense of relief when she closed the door behind her. She began to relax as she realized that the day was over and Melquíades had not shown up. She undressed and got into bed, imagining what would have happened if their conversation had taken place, what he would have said and how she would have reacted. She tried to drift off to sleep, telling herself again that he was an insufferable man. She had just leaned over to put out the lantern on the bedside table when she heard a knock at the door.
It’s him, she thought. That man has truly lost the plot. Coming to my room in the middle of the night!
When she opened the door, she saw Don Melquíades grinning serenely and stroking his moustache.
‘What do you want?’ she whispered. ‘Go away and leave me in peace.’
‘Allow me to enter,’ he said loudly.
‘Have you lost whatever wits you still possess? Who do you think you are, coming here in the middle of the night?’ she whispered indignantly. ‘Out, fool!’
Don Melquíades put his foot in the way, pushed until the door was open and entered the room. Astonished, she told him she had nothing to say to him.
‘When Don Diego finds out you forced your way into this bedroom, you will be expelled from Castamar,’ she whispered as he made his way inexorably forward and she retreated. ‘You might as well quit now, Don Melquíades – tomorrow will be your last day. Get out!’
He remained silent, waiting for her to calm down a little, before stopping his advance and taking a breath as he looked at her tenderly.
‘I love you,’ he said.
On hearing this, her eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. She was about to answer when he came even closer. Ursula just stood there like an idiot, waiting for him to stop looking at her like that, as if he could see her wounded spirit, her broken soul. He advanced a step further, and she stepped back. Ursula repeated that she wanted him to leave immediately, though far less emphatically this time. When he reached out his hands to brush her lips, she bit the tips of his fingers. He moaned a little but did not put up any resistance. He simply looked at her, enduring the pain.
‘Ursula,’ he said. ‘Look at me.’
She looked up and understood that she did not need to fight any longer.
‘You should not love me,’ she whispered. ‘I hate you.’
‘Then make sure I am dismissed tomorrow,’ he said quietly.
‘You’re a dullard, an idiot, an unbearable mediocrity,’ she said, ‘and I hate you with all my soul.’
He kissed her gently. Ursula moved away and slapped him. Don Melquíades kissed her again and she slapped him again. Don Melquíades looked at her and once more placed his lips on her cheek.
‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked.
‘Because I love you. I always have and I always will.’
She slapped him again and he grabbed her by the waist and kissed her passionately. Ursula felt the hairs standing up on the back of her neck, and for the first time in her life she did not feel disgusted by a man’s kiss. She understood that deep down in her heart she harboured a desire for love, that contemptible sentiment which she had always hated, and which made her as scandalously human as everyone else.
47
6–7 November 1721
As he rode down Calle Leganitos, forging a path through the crowds, Hernaldo thought to himself that at least his daughter was safe. He had spent the last few days in Don Enrique’s house while the marquess decided what to do about Doña Sol, and had it not been for the message he had received from Don Diego, he would have continued to waste his time in that mansion, which was as sad and gloomy as the marquess himself. Don Enrique remained locked in silence, afflicted by a melancholy that, if it continued, would surely carry him to the grave without any need for Don Diego to put a bullet in his head. And now there was another problem. Hernaldo found himself forced to choose between Don Enrique and his daughter, and in this contest, there could be only one winner.
To Hernaldo de la Marca,
On this day, two of my personal guards presented themselves at your dwelling to deliver a letter written by my hand to your daughter, Adela. The letter explained that she would be escorted to my house in Leganitos, whence I write these lines.
Before causing more pain and injury than you have already provoked, I beg you to think of your daughter’s future, as it would be unfortunate were she to have to live with the contempt of those around her if they knew her to be the daughter of a murderer. To give you an idea of your true situation, I will only say that I am already cognizant of criminal actions towards my wife, my friends and myself. We know that you murdered Daniel Forrado and a prostitute by the name of La Zalamera, among others, on the orders of your master, and that you orchestrated the assault on Señorita Castro and the abduction of my brother, Don Gabriel de Castamar.
It is my hope that you will not choose the path of perdition by advising Don Enrique of this communication, and that you will instead present yourself at my house on Calle Leganitos to surrender to the forces of justice. If you do so, I give my word that your daughter’s future will not be compromised.
Yours,
Don Diego de Castamar
Hernaldo’s blood had frozen in his veins and his guts had been gripped by fear. He had begun to shake and sweat, and he had to sit down. The serenity he displayed when depriving his unfortunate victims of their lives had abandoned him. The mere thought of his daughter’s misfortune made his knees tremble. Something had gone wrong, some loose end he had left untied.
The negro was surely on his way to the Americas, and La Zalamera, Jacinta and El Zurdo were dead. The only possibility was that the latter had arranged for some proof to come into Don Diego’s possession in the event of his death. But El Zurdo was not so cunning, he had nobody to trust, and he barely knew how to write. When Hernaldo had despatched him in the yard and left him to die, he had not had the impression that the man had something up his sleeve. Had that been the case, the dying man would surely have boasted of it. Only Doña Sol could have revealed the details of the mission the marquess had assigned to him and the events surrounding the death of the duke’s wife. However, the duke had made no mention of her in his note. El Zurdo was the only one who knew the full story. It must have been him, he thought. He was the only one with nothing to lose. Even so, it was inexplicable. He had left El Zurdo at death’s door. Whatever the truth of the matter, it was no longer of much importance: Don Diego knew about the conspiracy. The only surprise was that Don Diego had not appeared at the marquess’s estate at the head of an army of watchmen, guards and bailiffs to arrest them. There was no question that the duke had enough power and influence to make the machinery of justice turn against them. But he had preferred to show the most absolute discretion in untangling the web they had woven. Indeed, as Hernaldo reread the lines about the capture of Don Gabriel, he had the sense that the negro had already been rescued.
Now treachery was his only option. He would not consent to his daughter becoming a pariah, and he knew that if Don Diego so wished he could ruin Adela’s reputation throughout Spain and indeed the Americas with just one click of his fingers. Once her father was whipped and hanged in the public square, she would be stigmatized wherever she went; she would be the daughter of a traitor and a villain, nobody would employ her, nobody would marry her, and she would be forced to sell her body to survive. His own death would destroy his life’s only dream: to see his daughter prosper. I won’t allow Adela to pay for my crimes, he told himself. He and no other was responsible for his vile actions.
There was no point informing the marquess now. And so, without giving any explanation, he had taken one of Don Enrique’s horses and set off without delay for Calle Leganitos.
He entered the capital as the sun was setting and galloped down San Juan Bautista towards the fountain of Leganitos. A group of guards was stationed outside Don Diego’s mansion, waiting to take his horse, disarm him and escort him into the duke’s presence. He was led into a large courtyard, which gave onto the house itself, the servants’ quarters, the gardens and the stables. Don Diego was waiting for him, sitting by an ornate fountain, holding a small knife in his hand with which he was peeling an apple. Hernaldo walked slowly towards him, well aware that the guards were elite soldiers who would easily overpower him at the slightest false move. He could tell that Don Diego was sizing him up, noting his age and his physical strength, like an expert soldier. Hernaldo expected nothing less.
Afraid that Don Diego might have harmed his daughter, he immediately asked where Adela was. Don Diego didn’t reply and instead gestured to Hernaldo to be silent. As the two men held each other’s gaze, as if in a silent duel, Hernaldo understood that this man, whom Don Enrique had sought to destroy, had a fierce, indomitable spirit and that he would sooner die than surrender to his adversaries.
‘Listen to me, murderer,’ Don Diego said calmly. ‘Don’t ever confuse your methods with mine.’
Hernaldo knew that his question had offended the duke, and that nobody there would touch a hair on Adela’s head. He also knew, from Don Diego’s self-assured movements, that the duke felt completely sure of his victory, and that Hernaldo was there for one reason only: to allow the duke to obtain justice.
‘I don’t need your daughter to force you to do my bidding,’ he continued. ‘Unlike you and that master of yours, I have brought her here for her own safety. Had Don Enrique heard that you had come to see me, he would have been quite capable of ordering her abduction to ensure your silence. Your daughter is a guest in this house, something you will never be.’
‘I beg your forgiveness, your grace,’ Hernaldo said, ‘and I thank you for your consideration towards Adela. If there is anything I can do for you before I am taken away, please say so.’
Don Diego nodded and told him there were two ways in which he could leave this world.
‘In the first, the whole world will know you are a murderer, capable of killing and mutilating men and even women. That public knowledge will become an unbearable burden for your daughter. In the second, you will embark upon your journey to hell with discretion, without a public execution. In that event, Adela will not suffer the consequences of your actions and I will ensure that, if she does not marry, she will find employment in a noble house.’
Hernaldo did not need to consider his options.
‘Then you may go in and take your leave of your daughter,’ Don Diego said. ‘We will conclude our conversation later.’
Hernaldo sighed as he realized that his days were coming to an end, and his only regret was that he would not be there to see his darling married. Don Diego made for one of the courtyard gates but suddenly stopped.
‘Tell me, what was Don Enrique’s motive for organizing my downfall in this manner?’
‘You stole victory from the Habsburg party of which the marquess was a secret supporter, and with that you robbed him of the chance of becoming a Grandee of Spain,’ he replied. ‘But he might perhaps have forgiven you that and accepted his defeat had you not also deprived him of the person he loved most.’
Don Diego frowned, unable to make sense of what he had just heard. The duke’s confusion confirmed Hernaldo’s suspicion that he had never known of the depth of the friendship between his wife and Don Enrique, nor of the latter’s ambitions in her regard. It was clear the duchess had remained silent on the subject.
‘Doña Alba, your grace,’ he said, to the duke’s continuing perplexity. ‘The marquess had been about to propose to her when your own betrothal to her was announced. Your wife’s death plunged the marquess into such despair that he was on the verge of committing suicide and, unless I am much mistaken, he may do so now.’
Don Diego was silent as he tried to absorb this information.
Hernaldo was shown through a small wooden door that gave onto a gallery. He climbed the stairs to the floor above and the lieutenant led him into a drawing room. There, his daughter was waiting for him, her eyes red and swollen from crying, aware that these would be their final moments together.
‘Have they told you everything?’ Hernaldo asked. Adela nodded and, distraught, embraced him and wept, soaking his dirty shirt with her tears. He told her she was the best thing that had ever happened in his life, that any happiness he had experienced on this earth had been provided by her. Adela just hugged him more tightly – as she used to do when she was a little girl and woke up in the middle of the night – trying to dispel the rising sense of panic.
‘It’s time for you to fly free, my bird. I have done all I can to ensure that, when I am no longer here, you can fend for yourself.’
Hernaldo encircled her with his arms, as if wanting to protect her for eternity.
‘I am a vile and miserable man, but I have been lucky enough to have you in my life.’
Trembling, she clung to him more tightly still, her whole body gripped by anguish.
‘Father,’ she said, ‘Father…’
Hernaldo fixed the embrace in his memory, so that he could relive it when he was on the scaffold and fend off the fear of being reunited with the ghosts awaiting him on the other side. He calmed himself, kissed her on the forehead and told her to take the money and, after his execution, travel to the coast to see the sea, as she had always wanted. She clung to him, trying to stop him from leaving.
‘You have to let me go, my little bird,’ he said. ‘It’s time for me to stop killing and to cease being a burden to you.’
Adela slowly loosened her embrace. He stopped on the threshold and looked back, and he exchanged a final glance with his daughter – she silently telling him that she loved him, and he replying that not even death could destroy his feelings for her. Then the door closed and Adela let out a cry.
He was led away to find out what Don Diego wanted of him.
In the drawing room, the duke awaited him, warming himself at the fire that was burning in the hearth. The duke instructed him to sit, and Hernaldo thanked him again for his treatment of Adela. Don Diego scrutinized Hernaldo’s weather-beaten face for a moment before he spoke.
‘I thought you were just another murderer like El Zurdo,’ Don Diego said, ‘another man with no morals who doesn’t know the meaning of love.’
‘That may be the only difference between El Zurdo and me, your grace,’ Hernaldo replied. ‘I don’t doubt that you will keep your word with respect to my daughter, and I swear that I will do whatever I must.’
‘You will spend the night here, and at dawn you will return to your master’s house,’ the duke said smoothly, ‘and you will persuade him to come to the oak wood on the edge of his estate that same morning. Can you do that?’
Hernaldo nodded. It would be sufficient to tell the marquess that he and his man had captured Doña Sol Montijos, for whom Don Enrique harboured an intense hatred, he explained. Don Diego seemed to be in agreement, although Hernaldo saw him wince at mention of the marquess’s name.
He guessed that Don Diego had decided not to involve the forces of the law in the case of Don Enrique. His intention, rather, was to challenge him to a duel and put him to death. Unfortunately for the marquess, this duel would not be fought with flintlocks, as he would have preferred, but with swords. Hernaldo stood up and saluted the duke, as if he were his military superior rather than a nobleman, and thought to himself that his betrayal of his master would be his final act of villainy. He stopped for a moment and, his curiosity getting the better of him, asked if the duke would clear up a doubt he had. The duke nodded.
‘How did you find out about everything?’ he asked. ‘It was El Zurdo, wasn’t it?’
‘You don’t deserve to know,’ the duke replied curtly, closing the matter. ‘You are a man who has misplaced his loyalties.’
The duke’s refusal notwithstanding, Hernaldo thanked him for his reply and was escorted away, thinking that maybe Don Diego was right. All his life he had served the interests of others, who had only caused death and suffering. Perhaps he would have lived a better life serving somebody like the duke; he would have led a quieter existence guarding Don Diego’s estate and protecting his horses from thieves. The only thing that would have calmed his addiction to blood and death would have been his daughter. And so long as he was with her, he would have happily spent his years wandering the grounds of Castamar, by the side of a master who would never have ordered him to perform ignoble acts. I was never a good or a just man, he told himself. The only person I have known how to love was my little bird. Caring for her is the only good thing I have done with my life.
He was led to a small room and given some supper and a clean mattress to sleep on. They locked the door and left him there, his only company the moonlight that filtered in through a small window in the ceiling. He lay down, aware that his life’s journey was coming to its end. Dying is just one more tedious errand, he thought. He closed his eyes and was soon fast asleep.
