Paradise & More (Torres Family Saga) (2 page)

      
Magdalena averted her gaze from the Muñoz brothers and looked into the piercing dark blue eyes of her fantasy prince. Recalling how she had just spied shamelessly on him, she felt the heat stealing into her cheeks as she replied, “You are Diego Torres.”

      
“You have the advantage over me. I do not know your name.” In spite of its bedraggled condition, her green wool dress was of a fine cut, and her muddy boots were kidskin. He waited for a reply.

      
“I am Magdalena Luisa Valdés. My father owns these lands.” She gestured to the north grandly.

      
“How comes a nobleman's daughter to be roaming alone about the countryside?” He could sense her childish guilt interwoven with an inbred sense of pride. Pride, greed, and this worthless stretch of marshland were all the Valdés family had left.

      
“These were my neighbor's sons. Of noble blood,” she added scornfully, evading his real question. “I saw you many years ago when the Majesties were holding court in Cordoba. You were there with your father, Don Benjamin. Your name was Aaron then,” she said softly, her eyes worshipping his bronzed face.

      
Remembering the scheming Valdés woman, Doña Estrella, one of that Trastamara bastard's whores, he said coldly, “My name is still Aaron.”

      
“You must not say that, else the Holy Office—”

      
“You sound as if you were rehearsed by my father,” he interrupted with disgust. “I have been dutiful to my country and its one true religion, forsaking the Law of Moses. That will have to suffice. Would you report me to the Inquisition?” he asked with contemptuous amusement in his voice. “Poor repayment for saving your life.”

      
Magdalena gasped. “Of course not! I am most grateful and the Muñoz brothers have always been hated. Everyone will hail you as a hero for killing them.”

      
Aaron snorted in open disbelief. “Have I your leave to doubt that? When a
marrano
kills the sons of an Old Christian noble, he will be blamed no matter what the provocation. You can scarce stand witness to my valor anyway, without destroying your reputation,” he added speculatively. She was only a child, but what might she know of her mother's morals?

      
Magdalena swallowed in horror. “My dueña has always told me sneaking off to ride alone would bring the wrath of Heaven down on me.”

      
She looked so stricken that he chuckled. “Your secret is safe with me if mine”—he gestured to the slain men—“is safe with you. Where is your mount? How came you to be so far from it?” He looked around, seeing no evidence of a horse.

      
Again Magdalena felt her face flame. “My horse is beyond those trees. I...I wished to walk for a bit.”

      
“In this brackish mire?” he asked dubiously.

      
Her shoulders slumped as she turned and began to slog toward where her filly was tethered. “It was foolish of me, I know.” Then she turned and gazed up at him, her face radiant with a gleeful smile. “But if I cannot report you, you cannot report me either.”

      
He nodded. “We will let the authorities think the Muñoz brothers were killed by robbers.” He retrieved the dead men's purses, pitched them far out into the bog, and whistled for his stallion, which trotted obediently toward him. Mounting, he reached down and scooped the slip of a girl up in front of him. “Now, where is this supposed filly?”

      
“Beyond those supposed olive trees,” she said sweetly, her heart hammering as she was thrust against his hard body. Fighting the urge to reach up and touch the scar on his clean-shaven jaw, she whispered, “Again I thank you for saving my life and my honor, Don Di— Aaron,” she amended.

      
“Just see you do not ride without escort ever again,” he said with the sternness of an elder brother as he slid her from Andaluz after reining in beside her pretty white horse.

      
“Will you be at court when the Majesties come next to Seville?” she asked breathlessly. His face was forbidding as he said, “I only visit my family briefly...to settle a personal matter. The king and queen are encamped outside Granada and likely will be until it falls. I am to rejoin Fernando's armies shortly to participate in the glorious event.”

      
“Will it happen soon?” Her eyes glowed as she envisioned the pageantry of the court, with knights in gleaming armor and ladies in jewels and laces, all marching in a triumphal entry into the last Moorish stronghold in all the Spains.

      
“I would expect Granada to fall early in 1492,” he replied with an odd note of grimness in his voice. “Perhaps I will be at court after that,” he added enigmatically.

      
“Then I shall see you there,” she said with relish, “for my father has promised that I shall be a maid in the queen's entourage.” She mounted her filly with the unconscious grace of one long accustomed to riding, then smiled winsomely as she tried to smooth her tangled plait of hair. “Only wait, for I shall be a very beautiful lady when next we meet, Don Aaron.”

      
He laughed at the scraggily girl's spirit. “Perhaps you shall, at that, Dona Magdalena.” With that he saluted her and turned Andaluz away.

      
Magdalena watched him ride toward Seville, then whispered low, “I
will
be beautiful for you, Aaron Torres...and I will marry you!”

Chapter One

North of Palos, Fall 1491

      
On the banks of the sluggish Rio Tinto just outside the sleepy seaport town of Palos, the mighty monastery of La Rabida stood, gray and imposing. Aaron hated the place. At the age of fifteen, he had been sent here as a newly baptized convert to complete his instructions in the Christian religion. The younger son of the House of Torres had been given over as a token of good faith by his family. He was to take holy orders. He smiled sardonically as he rode up to the gate, recalling the truculent boy who had defied and defeated his teachers at every turn, finding few allies during his wretched years under their tutelage.

      
But now he returned because of a lone youth he had befriended, Diego Colon, son of a visionary Genoese chartmaker. Diego's mother had died in 1485 and he had been wrenched from everything familiar in Lisbon and deposited by his impoverished father with the Franciscan teachers. Aaron, baptized with the same name as Cristobal Colon's son, became the child's hero and protector. Both boys suffered the taunts of the other students—for the elder was a hated Castilian Jew and the younger, an equally detested Genoese, whose countrymen had grown rich as bankers and moneylenders in impoverished Castile and Aragon.

      
Aaron had seen Diego seldom in the past five years, not at all in the past two since he had joined King Fernando's army in the Moorish wars. He patted the letter he carried as he hailed the tonsured youth at the gate and arrogantly gave him the care of his horse. “I seek Cristobal Colon, the Genoese. Are he and his son Diego yet here?”

      
“They are to depart on the morrow. Tonight they sup with Fray Juan,” the young friar replied, noting the air of authority in the soldier's carriage. Surely the tall blond hidalgo was a man of some import. He carried himself with an assurance that commanded deference. “See the light that burns—”

      
“Yes, I well know the location of Fray Juan's quarters, Benito,” he interrupted with impatience. He paused for a moment, inspecting the gangly young man. “It is Benito de Luna, is it not?”

      
The round face crinkled in nervous puzzlement for a moment as Benito searched his memory. “Diego Torres?” he croaked, now genuinely afraid of the hard-looking soldier.

      
“Yes, the
marrano
you and your friend Vargas used to spit upon,” Aaron said almost genially, one hand resting lightly on his sword hilt. He watched the young friar back away in mortal terror. With grim satisfaction he turned and strode across the courtyard toward the guardian of La Rabida's quarters.

      
“The river air was ever oppressive,” he murmured as he inhaled the humid decay. Just as he passed a cluster of oleander bushes, he heard voices and footsteps crunched on the gravel. A tall man with faded red hair, shabbily dressed in a blue doublet and much-mended black wool cape, stood talking with a rotund little man in the brown robes of his office. The eleven-year-old boy standing beside his father saw Aaron first and raced across the space separating them, yelling a joyous welcome.

      
“Diego Torres! Is it truly you? I hoped we would meet again ere my father and I journeyed to France.” Round brown eyes were the heritage of his Portuguese mother and now they sparkled in pure delight as the boy embraced Aaron.

      
“Yes, Diego, it is truly I. You did not think to lose me so easily, did you?” Ruffling the boy's curly black hair, Aaron said affectionately, “I bring good news. You need not fear having to master yet another strange tongue. The Court of Charles VIII is cheated of your father's dream.”

      
“Torres! It is good to see you, my young friend,” Colon said as his long strides brought him quickly across the courtyard. “Once already you saved my life at the siege of Baza. Now do my ears deceive me, or do I owe you yet another debt?”

      
The two tall, slim men clasped each other in a firm embrace as the short, plump figure of Fray Juan came trundling up to them. The Franciscan watched as Torres handed a paper set with an official seal to Colon. “Word from their Majesties? Is the Enterprise of the Indies to be pursued then?” he asked excitedly.

      
Cristobal's keen blue eyes crinkled shrewdly as he broke the royal seal. “I do not think that King Fernando would have sent the son of his most trusted physician all the way from the encampment of Santa Fe unless he bore news of some import.” He quickly scanned the contents of the missive. “After languishing for six years, I will at last be vindicated!”

      
Aaron put a restraining hand on Cristobal's arm. “Do not let your hopes swell too soon, my comrade. Until Granada falls, the king and queen will only study the matter. Their sole concentration is on driving the Moors from their last stronghold.”

      
“But that surely cannot be long in coming! You fight with their armies,” young Diego said with assurance.

      
The three men laughed at the boy's exuberance. Then Aaron replied drily, “Even so formidable a soldier as I cannot banish Boabdil·s army quickly. Perhaps by year's end.”

      
“But I am saved from leaving Castile to plead my case in France,” Cristobal said gratefully.

      
“I do not think King Charles would be inclined to listen,” Fray Juan interjected.

      
“I agree. The French are everlastingly embroiled in Italian politics, but with the coming of peace in Castile, the monarchs will need the wealth that a trade route to the Indies promises,” Aaron said, brushing off his dusty clothing.

      
“You have journeyed far on royal business and must be weary,” the friar said. “I will have a meal and a bed prepared. For now, rest in my library with Cristobal and Diego.” With that, the friar scurried across the courtyard, summoning workers to do his bidding.

      
Once comfortably ensconced in the heavy leather chairs of the library, Aaron and Cristobal sipped wine and discussed their plans as the boy sat between them on a stool, listening with rapt attention.

      
“It is most fortunate that you arrived now. At first light we would have been gone,” Colon said.

      
Aaron's lips twisted wryly. “Some might even say it was God's will.”

      
“I am one such.” Cristobal's voice was quiet, but his eyes glowed with fervent fire. “My enterprise will not fail.”

* * * *

Seville, January 1492

      
Aaron surveyed his family home fondly, looking down on the courtyard from the second-story height of the open gallery. The orange and lemon trees waved softly in the morning breeze and the babbling fountain seemed almost to be singing to him. Yet Aaron Torres was not soothed.

      
. “So grim, my son. The war is over and you are returned, God be praised, safe with your family.” Serafina Torres' strong face was smooth and serene, belying her fifty years, even though her dark brown hair was threaded with silver.

      
“How long will any of us be safe? That is the question,” he replied softly. “Now that Granada has fallen, those Trastamaras will turn their attention to us—Fernando to bleed us for money, Ysabel to bleed us literally in her religious zeal.”

      
Serafina's brow creased. “But surely not, for we have suffered the loss of so much to secure our safety. We converted and accepted Christian baptism—thousands did. Your father has long and faithfully served the royal household as physician.”

      
“And intermarried his children with the most powerful Old Christian nobles in Castile and Aragon, yes, I know,” Aaron said curtly.

      
“Your bitterness is understandable, but misdirected, my son. Benjamin only acted to save us.”

      
“You are a good and loyal wife, Mother. And,” he sighed heavily, “my father has taken what he sees as the only course. But my brother Mateo has become a stranger, concerned only with the interests of his Catalan wife's merchant fleet. And Ana...I cannot forgive what has happened to Ana.”

      
“Nor I. But when we betrothed her to Lorenzo, we had no idea how unhappy she would be as his wife.” Her voice broke.