Bridge of fire, p.11
Bridge of Fire, page 11
“Please, state your business,” she interrupted sharply.
“As I said, I’ve fallen on hard times. My last ship sank two days from Veracruz, and I lost all my belongings and the few pesos I had managed to save. When I saw you in church it came to me that you are a lady, as Don Miguel said, a very rich lady.” He paused and licked his lips. “I was hoping you could part with a small purse—say, a thousand ducats? In gold.”
The dog! She would have liked nothing better than to ask her doorman to throw him into the street. But she didn’t dare. He knew too much. “That is not a paltry sum,” she replied tartly.
“For a rich lady it is. Or would you rather your husband— Don Ruy de Diaz, isn’t it?—know about your stay at a certain country house? Not to speak of poor Carlos, who is buried in the woods beyond.”
“And so you think you can extort money from me? My husband is fully aware of what happened in that house.”
“Is he, now? He can’t be a very proud man, can he?”
“That is none of your concern.”
“I am willing to wager he knows nothing—unless I tell him. What will it be? The gold or a scandal? Eh?”
Had he called her bluff? Should she go on insisting Ruy knew everything? Suppose Gaspar wasn’t taken in by such an allegation? Could she be sure that he would not approach Ruy? She thought it prudent not to take the chance. Perhaps there was another way to foil this blackguard. She would think of something. She must.
“I cannot give you ducats, either in gold or silver. My husband deals with the money. He pays the tradesmen and the servants. I have none.”
“But you have jewels. Give me what you can to equal a thousand ducats. I am not greedy. I don’t ask for more than I deserve.”
“I cannot spare my jewels. They would be missed.”
Gaspar shrugged. “The money, then.” He grinned at her, then wiped his mouth with the back of a dirty hand.
A sudden murderous hate choked her, and for a few moments she could not speak. She wanted to lash out at him, to claw the smirk from his ugly face. How dare this low, filthy scum come to her house and ask for money? But if she was angry, she was frightened, too. Gaspar, out of malice, might announce her indiscretion to the world if she did not pay for his silence.
She swallowed her rage. “Very well,” she agreed coldly. “You must realize I am not able to get that many ducats at once. Tomorrow, perhaps. I don’t want you to come here,” she added hurriedly. “I will meet you tomorrow night, say twelve o’clock under the west causeway at the floodgates.”
“Such a distance, Señora?”
“I prefer not to be seen.”
* * *
After her interview with Gaspar, Francisca went up to her room. Dismissing the nursemaid, she lifted her sleeping son from his trundle bed. Bracing his small head against her shoulder, she sat down on her favorite chair near the window. The child slept on, nestled against her breast. How comforting the warm little body feels, she thought, kissing the dark crown of his head. The little hands with their dimpled knuckles clutching her collar, how dear and sweet. He is my treasure and my salvation.
In moments of distress, as now, Francisca found a certain measure of calm came to her in just holding her son. She could not explain why. He was only two, too small to understand her problems should she speak of them. Yet his existence was not only a source of pride and joy, but her reason for being as well. Since his conception, everything she had done had been done for him.
And now his safety as well as hers was threatened. She did not know what Don Ruy would do if he should learn of her association with Miguel. But once he discovered her past liaison, then the paternity of the child would be questioned. Honor might force him to brand her beloved Jorge a bastard and banish her to her father’s house. And would Don Pedro accept mother and son and the shame that went with their ignoble return? For all that they were secret Jews, her father and husband were still Spaniards, imbued with a machismo that demanded their women be pure and unsullied.
She could see no other way but to accede to Gaspar’s demands.
Obtaining the thousand ducats would not be difficult. She could take it from the strongbox and tell Don Ruy she had given it to the Bethlehemites for the founding of a hospital or to the brothers who ran the Magdalen Asylum for the insane. Since she donated to charitable orders from time to time, he would accept her explanation, although he might cluck his tongue at such excessive generosity.
The question is, she asked herself, shifting Jorge to her shoulder, will Gaspar be satisfied with the thousand? Most likely not. The promise to leave the city she would exact from him would probably mean nothing. How could she trust the word of an unscrupulous lepero such as Gaspar? He would return to the house, not once, but many times, slowly bleeding her of money and jewels, while she would find it harder and harder to explain their disappearance to Ruy.
Then what could she do? Hire an assassin to kill him? That would only exchange one blackmailer for another, shifting Gaspar’s extortionate demands to the assassin’s. If she was to be rid of Gaspar, then she must do it herself.
The thought was frightening. It would be murder, a man’s blood spilled. How could she, who had turned away from the sight of the Frenchman’s gaping wounds, who took care not to watch the final bloody moments of a bullfight or the butchering of a lamb, kill a man? That he deserved to die, that he himself would not hesitate to dispose of her, made only a slight impression on her troubled conscience.
Yet she could not allow this rapacious beast to endanger Jorge’s good name, to ruin whatever happiness she had managed to give Ruy, or to cause a scandal her beloved parents did not deserve.
On the following night she waited until well after the cathedral bells tolled twelve and the servants were safely in bed before she quietly let herself out of the house. In the purse she had stuffed down her bosom were roughly five hundred ducats of gold, enough to keep Gaspar counting for what time she might need. Concealed up her sleeve was a well-honed kitchen knife. She was not sure what her approach would be, but she felt it would be wise—and safer—if she could trick Gaspar into surrendering his own weapon.
As she hurried along the moonlit streets, hugging to the shadowed walls, trying to avoid the lighted lanterns of the watch (curfew was at ten), she thanked God that Ruy was away. His presence in the house would have made her mission, if not impossible, difficult.
It was a long walk, and the barking of dogs as she passed silent houses tightened her nerves. She imagined that unseen eyes were watching her from behind barred and shuttered windows. At any moment she expected a light to flare, a door to open, and the shout “Who goes there?” to echo down the street. But all remained quiet within, the good citizens of the city resting undisturbed in their slumber as her footsteps clacked noisily along the cobbles.
She could tell she was nearing her destination by the foul stench of the canal, and presently the outline of moored boats along its banks came into view. She followed the noisome waterway for another half mile before the causeway suddenly loomed up before her. A bulky shadow detached itself as Francisca approached. Her knees shook and her heart thudded, and for a few moments she struggled with the urge to turn and flee. But the sight of his ugly face as he moved into the light of a high-sailing moon, the sly, conspiratorial smile that suddenly broke out, reminded her of the murderous rage she had felt in the garden.
“You brought the money?” he asked.
“Yes. But—wait! I don’t trust you. How do I know you won’t be asking for more next week or next month?”
“I give you my word.”
“That’s not enough. As a token of good faith, I want you to pledge your dagger.”
“My dagger? I’ve lived with it for nigh on thirty years. A man’s dagger is his best friend. I’d sooner part with my arm.”
“That might be, but look at it this way. I’m buying it for one thousand gold ducats.”
He mulled that over for a moment, assessing her slender figure as if to decide how she could possibly harm him.
“All right, then.” He removed the dagger from his baldric and threw it on the ground at her feet. Ignoring the insult, she kicked it behind her, not daring to stoop to pick it up. He was dangerous, twice her size and at least three times her weight. But anger and loathing rose above fear.
“Where’s the money?” Gaspar demanded.
“I have it.”
When she reached under her cloak, his eyes took on an avid gleam. The moment she had the purse in her hands, he grabbed it from her and greedily undid the drawstrings.
“It’s all there,” she said as his fingers dipped into the purse.
Moving behind him, she fumbled at her sleeve. The knife glinted as she brought it up. Now! she told herself, now, one good stab between the shoulders! Her hand wavered as a tiny doubt flickered across her mind.
In that moment of indecision, Gaspar, sensing something amiss, whirled about. Before Francisca could draw breath, the knife was wrested from her with a wrenching, agonizing twist of her wrist.
“Trick me, would you?” He captured the other wrist and held both with one hairy paw while the other thrust the knife point under her chin. “How’d you like some of the same?” he queried, his hot, fetid breath making her flinch. “Scared, are you?”
“No,” she lied between gritted teeth. “You wouldn’t dare kill me.” She knew her bravery to be a thin veneer masking a trembling terror that threatened to overwhelm her. Yet to show the least sign of fear to this bully would give him an advantage she could not afford.
“My maid, who is my trusted confidante,” she went on in a cold, carefully controlled voice, “knows that I went out to meet you. She knows your name and your purpose. If I should not return, my husband and my people will track you down and cut you to small pieces and feed you to the dogs.”
He gave the knife a twist, pricking her skin. “It’s all talk. If you took your maid into your confidence, you never would have come to meet me alone.”
“She is keeping watch at home.”
“A lie. All lies.” The knife moved again, this time drawing blood. Gaspar laughed. “You might be right, Señora. I have no wish for the hounds to be on my trail. I have a better idea.”
He stuck the knife into the band at his waist and, still holding on to her wrists, pulled her toward the shadows of the causeway.
“I always meant to have me a fine lady. And now is my time, eh? ’Twould be better to have a feather bed and silk sheets under us, but it can’t be helped.”
Her body went taut. It was one thing to be knifed, a clean death, and another to be used by this filthy animal.
“Don’t be shy, Señora.” He jerked her up against him, his slobbering, odorous mouth crushing her lips. He smelled foul; his mouth on hers was a defilement! Her instinct was to fight, to struggle, to claw his face and beat at his head. Instead she suddenly went limp.
“Seems you’re going to like it, eh?”
He let go of her hands and brought his ugly face to hers again. She did not stir, did not make the slightest sound of revulsion as his furry tongue pried her lips apart and invaded her mouth. Slowly, steathily, her right hand came up between them, her fingers curling around the knife handle. With a sudden, spasmodic movement, she dragged it free of Gaspar’s belt. Before she could turn it on him, he leaped back out of reach.
He laughed, a loud donkey’s bray. “I’ve caught a wild one in my trap. That will make your taming all the more enjoyable. Come, come.” He motioned with his hand. “Come and get me.”
He danced around her, hee-hawing as she turned, following his movements. He was playing cat and mouse, knowing that in the end he had only to lunge and, with a sideswipe of his huge, hamlike hand, render her senseless. Still she would not give up. Her mind kept leaping about, seeking a way to get at him. It was apparent she would not be able to get close enough to stab him. Then why not throw the knife, as she had seen the gallants on the square do at each other or at targets? The impetus behind the thrown weapon would not be as strong as she wished, but it might wound him enough for her to get away.
She advanced toward him with the knife held high. Laughing still, he stood his ground, facing her with his back to the canal.
“Come, come,” he urged.
She drew her arm back and flung the knife. He dodged it, throwing his body sideways, taking a step back toward the edge of the canal. The step was fatal. It encountered empty air, and he went tumbling into the canal. At that moment the floodgates opened to release the canal’s impounded water, as they did every morning. Francisca, rushing to the edge of the bank, saw a struggling Gaspar being swept away. Then he was lost to view beneath the swirling waters.
God had saved her from murder. Nevertheless, she prayed that Gaspar would drown and that she would never see that odious face or hear that dreadful laugh again.
Chapter X
In September of 1656 news reached Mexico City that the annual flotilla had arrived safely from Cadiz at the port of Veracruz. Among the ships was the Espíritu Santo.
“I expect the cargoes will reach the city on muleback within ten days,” Don Pedro said.
It was Friday, and the Diazes were having their customary Sabbath eve meal with the de Silvas.
“And none too soon,” Ruy said. “Oil and wine have become scarce, and what remains is dear.”
“The same with mercury,” Pedro put in. “Without the quicksilver we can’t separate the dross from the silver at the mines. I shall be glad to see the first of those mules trotting over the causeways.”
“They say the captains and agents are already beginning to arrive,” Ruy commented.
“Indeed. And though the royal commission alone is empowered to sell mercury, I have a man, one of the galleon owners, who can obtain special treatment for me. At a price, of course. I have done business in the past with Don Miguel Velasquez del Castillo, a good trader and honest. I recommend him highly.”
If Francisca had thought she could hear her former lover’s name again with equanimity, she was wrong. When the first tidings of the Espíritu's arrival had been cried in the public square, she had experienced mixed feelings, the old dread underlaid with ghostly memories of joy and pain. But then she had reassured herself that nearly six years had passed since Miguel had sailed to the Philippines, that the Espíritu could have changed ownership, not once but several times, that Miguel could have obtained another ship, perhaps two, or remained in Spain engaging in the Mediterranean trade.
But he was here on these shores, perhaps in Mexico City at this moment.
While her father discoursed on royal commissions and the need of a good, honest agent to intervene for him, Francisca sat with an implacable face, her heart bounding in her chest like a hare on the run. Her hands trembled so she could not eat, her mind swinging wildly from one thought to the next. She wanted to shout a warning to her father that this man knew they were Jews, and that they must not trust him. And then, in the midst of her agitation, an inexplicable longing seized her, a need to see his face again, to hear his voice, to feel the touch of his hand.
But it was wrong! Wrong! How could she have such shameful feelings about a man who was their enemy?
“If you would like to meet Don Miguel, Ruy,” her father was saying, “I plan to invite him to supper next Tuesday. I think you will find him a shrewd bargainer, but he won’t cheat you. As I said, he is more honest than most.”
Here in this house! Francisca thought, aghast. She looked at her son, who sat with blinking eyes and nodding head, trying to keep awake. Whatever happens, Francisca thought fiercely, Miguel must never know about Jorge.
“Papá,” Francisca began, wetting her lips, “perhaps Ruy would prefer buying from the man with whom he has always done business.”
Don Ruy stroked his sparse beard. “It’s true, I would. In the past I have traded with Don José Perez, but I’ve been told that he died at sea a year ago. So I am in need of finding a replacement.”
Pedro said, “Meet Don Miguel, then you can decide.”
When the de Diazes returned home that night, Francisca took Jorge directly up to his room. “I’ll put him to bed,” she told Eléna, Jorge’s nursemaid.
She removed Jorge’s clothes, the boy falling asleep before she finished pulling his nightshirt over his head. Lifting him on her lap, she sat rocking her body to and fro as though in prayer. Jorge was big for five, and heavy. But she held him close as if he were still the infant who had given her comfort. Absently humming an old lullaby under her breath, she thought of the sin that had conceived him, even as she told herself that the boy was innocent. Only she was to blame. Her only excuse had been love, a reckless, passionate love.
She no longer loved Miguel. How could she? How could her love prevail against his hate?
She did not want to see him again. But it was not a question of merely avoiding him, something she could easily manage. She struggled with another dilemma. Ought she tell her husband and father that Miguel knew they were conversos! If Miguel had not informed upon them five years earlier, then perhaps he would keep silent now. Perhaps. Should she take the chance? She needn’t reveal the extent of her past intimacy with Miguel. But whatever story she told, the Diazes and the Silvas might find it prudent to flee Mexico City, abandoning all their properties and going into hiding before finding refuge in another country. If they were lucky enough to get away.
All because of a slip of the tongue, words used in a sudden show of mindless temper. Oh, God, if she could only take them back!
Jorge stirred in her arms. “What is it, Mamá?” he asked sleepily.
“Nothing, my darling.”
She put him down on the bed, pulling a light blanket up under his chin. He fell asleep again almost instantly, a dark lock of his hair falling over his brow. She brushed it back and stooped to kiss him. She did not care about the houses and the mines, the plantations, the jewels and gold they might be forced to forfeit. But to lose Jorge…
