Catch Me in Castile (11 page)

Over his shoulder he said to me, “I think she was pushed.”

“Murdered? Why?”

“People were ruthless then. I bet there was a conspiracy to kill the heir to the throne. The nursemaid knew too much.”

I smiled at him. “Conspiracy? I thought only Americans talk like that.”

“Conspiracies can occur outside the United States, Erin.”

“Are you getting huffy with me?” I had the urge to ruffle his hair. “Besides—” I turned to the guide, “—didn’t you say the child died of natural causes?”

“That’s the story passed down through history, but who knows?” The guide shrugged.

“The nursemaid was murdered. Why else would her spirit haunt the tower?” Santiago asked.

I squinted at him. “You believe in ghosts?”

“You don’t? Hey, come over here and look out the window.”

I stepped backwards. “No, thank you. I’m not interested in becoming road pizza.”

He opened his arms to me. “You won’t fall. I promise.”

His offer sounded too good to pass up. I crept into his arms, my face burrowed into his chest.

“Not that way. Turn around.” He physically turned me, holding me snuggly against him, my back to his chest. I kept my eyes shut, concentrating on breathing slowly, calmly, while visualizing pretty pink sunsets and blue-green lagoons.

“Can you see through your eyelids? Open them up,” he coaxed.

I opened one eye. The whole world was below the window. A bustling city, a river, meadows, rocks, lots of rocks.

“See? Not so bad,” he said softly.

Little did he know my heart was trying to beat its way out of my chest. How could I possibly tell him I’d dreamed of a place like this many, many times? In my nightmares I plummeted to my death.

A prickly, electric sensation began at the base of my tailbone and fingered its way up to my scalp. An orange-sized lump of hot panic burned my throat. I couldn’t breathe. I held the scream inside my chest where it scraped to get out. Terror bucked through me like a wild thing out of control. Something horrible clung to the edge of my consciousness, just out of my reach.

“Stay away from the window,” a voice screeched on the wind.

Everything rolled all around me. My stomach lurched.

Oh God.

“Erin, are you all right? You’re pale.” Santiago tried to move me away from the window. I was frozen in place, gripping his arm as if my life depended on it.

“Step back, before it is too late!” The voice was screaming at me.

“I can’t.” My knees wobbled.

“That’s right. Lean on me. I’ve got you,” Santiago was saying in a soothing voice.

“Erin, Erin, run!” The ghost’s scream was a nail scraping my brain.

“Stop it, please,” I begged.

“Stop what?” Santiago asked.

“Oh God!” I cried. “I’m dying.”

I turned my face toward him, but the spinning in my head was so strong I couldn’t focus. Shooting yellow and red lights whizzed past my eyes. I sailed into a black, whirling hole full of muffled voices and shrill ringing sounds. Feeling myself go limp, I fleetingly thought about how much it would hurt when my body hit the ground.

From a tunnel far, far away, someone yelled. “I remember this. Look!”

Serena strolls with Clara through the palace rose gardens, enjoying the warmth of the sun after an unseasonably cold winter.

“Aunt Beatriz is determined to make a fine lady-in-waiting of me,” Clara says. “Even if the waiting part bores me to tears. I had to feign belly illness to sneak away.”

“The marquesa is bound to find you out. Perhaps we should go back so you may continue your lessons.”

“And miss this lovely celebration? Never.” Clara pulls a hard roll out of the folds of her satin gown. “Cook said it is your birthday.”

“Aya, Clara. You’ve got honey on your gown.” Serena uses the apron of her own plain dress to swipe at the stain.

“Why fuss? It is just a gown.”

Serena’s gaze drops to the dirt beneath her worn shoes. Clara had many gowns. All beautiful.

Taking Serena’s elbow, Clara pulls her toward the shade of a lacy oak. “This looks like a fine spot to begin the festivities.”

“Hmmm. Why do I think you are using me as an excuse to forego your training?” Serena shakes a finger at her.

Clara pouts. “That is not fair.”

“What was it this time? Letter penning?”

“Far worse. Embroidery.” Clara grimaces. “Aunt Beatriz says it teaches poise, patience and beauty. Holy Madre, I’d rather poke out my eye with a needle than have to add another stitch to her pillow.”

Serena cannot help herself. She laughs aloud.

“What handsome gentleman cares if I make a pretty stitch? It is my pretty figure that will catch his eye. Is it not?” Clara says as she sashays around the tree.

“You ask me? I know little about being a lady.”

“This is the truth. Your manners are greatly lacking. Will you eat your gift, or not?”

Serena spreads her dress out behind her and motions for Clara to sit beside her in the soft, cool grass. Breaking the sweet roll in half, they eat it, licking the honey from their fingers.

“Aya, Serena, Cook must really care for you. She never remembers my birthday.”

Serena’s voice is soft when she says, “This is the first time I can remember anyone marking the day.” In her memory she sees parties with presents, laughter, and song. And feels the sorrow. When the other girls at the Convent of Santa Ana celebrated with each other, she was never included.

Clara wipes her hands on the grass and twists her long cream-colored braid around her finger. “So, fourteen years ago today Serena Muñoz was born in a smelly fishing village.” She points the end of her braid at Serena. “You are a long way from home,
amiga
.”

Serena shakes her head so hard her raven curls fall forward to partially cover her gray eyes. “I do not have a home.” She sighs. “I wish I had a mother to kiss my cheek on this day.”

“Why do you pine for a mother who gave you that scar? You are better off here.”

Serena palms the ugly mark cutting a jagged course down her cheek. “Not true, at least not the way you mean. Mother Catarina told me the story, do you wish to hear it?”

“Tell me, it will keep me all the longer from needlepoint.”

“A neighbor lady gathering berries heard a baby’s cries coming from my family’s underground cellar. She was terrified to go into the yard. Black death had killed half the residents in my fishing village. The lady thought no one had survived in the Muñoz house. Was it truly a baby, or a spirit’s cries? Being a woman of good heart, she could not bear to leave. With trembling hands, she lifted the cellar door and found me screaming with hunger and fright. The woman almost fled when she saw the gash on my cheek and my hair matted with dried blood, but she had no daughters of her own and longed to keep me.

“Her husband would not allow me to stay in their home. Everyone wondered how I had escaped from a house where the bodies of my family were still strewn across the mattresses and floors. The plague had attacked like a wolf in the night. How had I survived?”

Clara leans forward in awe. “You never told me this story.”

“The villagers thought I was cursed and sought to be rid of me. Death had left its claw mark upon my countenance, had it not? Would it return to collect me and all those nearby? As it so happened, a nun from the Convent of Santa Ana came to see the miracle with her own two eyes.”

Serena stops to take a breath. The memory is hard to relive, even when it is only the stories the sisters told she recalls.

“So?” Clara nudges Serena’s shoulder. “What miracle?”

“Sister Agnes arrived moments before the villagers set my house aflame. She saw my mother’s swollen arm draped over the window ledge. When the sister’s gaze traveled from the window and across the yard to the underground cellar, she knew at once what had occurred.

“My mother knew the villagers would never rescue a baby from a death house. The villagers would set fire to the house with me still inside. In her final moments of agony, my mother threw me out the window. She used her last drop of life to save mine.”

Clara dabs at the corners of her eyes with her kerchief. “That is perhaps the sweetest story I have ever heard. But then, how did you come to live here, at the palace?”

“My guardian, Lord rest her soul, arranged it with your aunt. The Marquesa de Moya was kind enough to take me in.”

“To my good fortune. Without you I would never taste a pastry like the one we just shared.” Clara licks the sweetness still clinging to her lips.

Serena smiles. “It was good. I shall have to thank Cook for her thoughtfulness.”

“Mmm, do. Perhaps she’ll give you another.” Clara stands up quickly. “
Mira
, do you see what I see?”

Serena pushes her hair back and follows her friend’s pointing finger. A young man is riding his charcoal horse across the bridge toward the Alcázar with the confidence and speed of a warrior.

“Who is he?” Serena squints as hard as she can.

“Over here!” Clara dances on her tippy-toes. “Aya, he saw me.”

Serena’s heart pounds when the young man slows his horse. She has the urge to run back inside the castle, but her feet root themselves into the grass and her eyes refuse to look anywhere other than at the young man.

He wears a dark blue tunic with matching hose and felt hat. Sitting tall upon his gray horse, he resembles a statue of a soldier in the plaza. He is perhaps the most beautiful creature she has ever seen.

“Good day, ladies,” he says.

He has a deep, rich voice that sings sweeter to her heart than any melody she has ever heard, including those Father Simón sings during Mass. The thought brings terror to her chest and she half-expects to be struck down where she stands for blasphemy.

“Why, is that really you, Andrés?” Clara runs to him. The tight bodice of her gown strains with every breath she takes. “I thought you were off fighting great battles for our king.”

“Surely a swordsman, even the greatest of them all—” he winks, “—cannot always be fighting.” His gaze fixes upon Serena, traveling from the tip of her head down to her tiny feet. No part of her has moved since his arrival.

“Tell me all the news.” Clara twists her long blond braid around her finger. “I want to hear everything.”

“But, cousin, where are your manners?” When he removes his hat, dark hair falls across his brow. He swings his leg off the horse, landing lightly in front of the silent Serena. “Are you not going to introduce me to this beautiful
señorita
?”

Serena’s face burns. Her gaze quickly pulls away from the warm brown eyes boring into her soul.

“Apologies,” Clara says. “Serena Muñoz de Avila, this handsome brute is my cousin, Andrés, the Marques de Moya.”

He bows deeply. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Serena makes a small curtsy in response, but cannot manage a word. In her fourteen years, she has never conversed with a young man, let alone a handsome nobleman. Until this moment, she has not stared one directly in the eye either. Her hot cheeks grow hotter. She is aghast to feel tears threatening to flow.

Andrés seems not to notice her discomfort. “Serena from Avila, is it? My mother did not send word that a lovely lady was staying in the Alcázar. I might have taken my two-week leave from the king’s army earlier.”

Serena’s eyes widen. It is as if a dozen tiny birds have suddenly taken flight inside her chest. She looks up from the ground and is instantly captivated by his handsome face.

“Will you be staying in Segovia long?” He leans toward her.

It is difficult to swallow. The young man’s face becomes distorted through tears of embarrassment welling in her eyes. After an unbearable moment of silence, she opens her mouth and garbles, “I…uh…um…”

Clara rushes to her rescue. “Do not tease her so. She is from the convent and not accustomed to your charm.”

His mouth opens in surprise. “This beautiful young lady is from the convent?”

Serena’s hand flies to her hot cheek. The nobleman must not have seen the scar, or he would not use the words “beautiful” and “lovely”.

“Remember when your mother’s friend adopted a girl? Serena is that girl. She’s living at the palace until she is of age and finds a suitable husband,” Clara said.

“A suitable husband?” He grins.

“Certainly, perhaps a smithy, or we could hope for a merchant of wares.” Even though Clara leans close to Andrés’s ear, Serena hears her friend whisper, “The poor girl has no dowry, no family.”

Andrés is taken aback. “I see.”

Serena feels herself melting into the dirt.

“She is fortunate to be under your mother’s care.” Clara pats Serena’s shoulder. “Even if a nobleman is out of her reach.”

Serena blinks hard, but the tears fall anyway. She has heard stories of lightning striking people. Why cannot a bolt hit her now and put an end to this misery?

“
Dios mío
, are you ill?” Clara asks.

Still Serena cannot find her tongue to speak.

Andrés shifts uncomfortably from boot to boot. “I should, that is to say, I must…” He clears his throat. Turning toward his horse, he finds the excuse to take his leave. “…be off to the stables.
Buenos tardes
.” In a flurry of motion, he swings up onto the saddle and is gone.

“Holy Mother, Serena! Did a spirit brush against your soul?” Clara chides.

“Sorry,” she sniffles. “No man has spoken directly to me. Save the priest during confession. And he is behind the curtain.”

“Sweet Mother!” Clara laughs. “Not to worry. Andrés did not mean you any harm. He compliments all the
señoritas
. It is part of his nature. Noblemen are like that.” She chuckles again. “Only the priest,
rico
. You have lived a sheltered life. But let me tell you mine has not been too different.

“When I was a girl, my mother sent me here to learn how to be a real lady. And—as you have seen with your own eyes—Aunt Beatriz is a harsh woman. Not so loving as my own mother. I tell you true, Andrés was my saving grace. He invited me to play the games of hide and chase with himself, Prince Juan and the royal princesses. He made me feel at home. So you see, he is no monster to fear. And I shall teach you how to speak to the next nobleman who passes by.”

Serena doubts she will ever be able to speak to a nobleman. Pressing her hand to her breast, she wonders at how fast her heart is beating. It has never raced so.