Paradise & More (Torres Family Saga) (23 page)

      
“To kill he who destroyed your family.” She knew this well, for he had explained the tragedy that had befallen the House of Torres. “But after that you will once more return. Nothing remains for you in that place. Here you could be a great
cacique
. I am of royal blood. As my husband you could lead our people against the evil of the white men who make us dig in the earth for gold.” She drew herself up with hauteur, as grand as a Castilian princess.

      
As Aaron had learned their language, he had found Aliyah was the word for a small, brightly plumed little bird that preened itself high in the tree tops of the jungle. “You do me great honor, Little Bird, but I have told you I must wait.”

      
“But you will return to us,” she insisted, placing her hand on his bare chest and stroking it. “Do you not still find me beautiful? I have had great bride prices offered for me by many fine nobles—
cacique
s from Magua and Ciguayo, even as far away as Xaragua. Now that I am proven fertile, I may choose among many men.” Her voice, at first wheedling, became strident as he made no response to her overtures but continued staring into the flames of the cook fire.

      
“I will do what I must do, Little Bird. You must do what you think best,” he said, rolling himself up in a smooth movement and stalking off across the plaza.

* * * *

      
Luis Torres lay in his
hamaca
, sipping from a gourd filled with fermented papaya juice, reading an Arabic treatise on Aristotle, a treasure he had brought from Castile. The paper was moldy as were most of his books, but it was his favorite diversion. Hearing a commotion from the waterfront, he carefully placed the fragile volume on the earthen floor and swung out of the
hamaca
.

      
His Taino wife, Anacama, came running up to their hut, gesturing excitedly. “A ship has come from across the waters bearing the brother of the admiral!”

      
“So, at last the prodigal has come, all the way from France,” Luis said, smiling broadly. Bartolome was older and by all reports possessed far sounder judgment and far stiffer backbone than did his younger brother Diego.

      
Luis walked briskly toward the crowd gathered about the ships' boats at the harbor.

      
As the boat approached shore, Magdalena sat huddled in misery, hot, itchy and overcome with apprehension.
What will I do if he rejects me?
Looking at the wildly unkempt men gathered to greet them, she was appalled. “It is naught but a crude village of thatch huts with a small stone fortress at its center. I have seen far more impressive towns in the poorest marshes of Andalusia,” she said in horror.

      
“My elder brother has always had a tendency toward exaggeration. It is a fault, I fear, of every visionary. I had hoped the settlement would be more substantial than this, but suspected it would be much as you see it. Like our Portuguese brethren, we Genoese are inclined to trade and industry. The Castilians are a warrior race who take ill to planting wheat and laying masonry. Cristobal's letters to me decried the lack of discipline among the gentlemen adventurers whom he had recruited.”

      
The smell of rotting fish and other offal filled her nostrils. The men crowding about the boats, staring at her, were scarcely less odoriferous. “Why do these men stare so? They look like savages themselves!”

      
“I am given to understand, Magdalena, that many of these men have not seen a lady since they left Cadiz in 1493. A few white females have sailed aboard the more recent supply vessels, but we have traveled with some of these women. I believe I can understand why the men view you differently,” Bartolome explained with gentle irony.

      
During the long tedious days aboard the heavily laden
nao,
Magdalena had stayed clear of both the seamen and the coarse women who accompanied them. A small handful of females were wives of soldiers, the rest common prostitutes. All were curious about the highborn lady who had come aboard in the pre-dawn darkness just before sailing. Wanting to leave no trail that her father could trace, Magdalena had boarded heavily cloaked, wearing a heavy net caul encasing her distinctive hair.

      
Now she was dressed to meet Aaron with as much care as possible, wearing her best green silk gown, covered by a gauze surcoat of palest green embroidered with gold thread.

      
As she fussed with the tight sleeves and then reached up to smooth her hair, Bartolome said laughingly, “You look grand. Diego Torres will think you a vision.”

      
“After weeks of bathing in salt water, I feel sticky and bedraggled. Do you think anyone here will write back that you accompanied a red-haired woman to Ysabel?” she asked worriedly.

      
Bartolome replied with cynicism, “I doubt any of this crew can write. Even if they do, we are far from your father's reach now. I can claim you as my sister,” the big, red-haired man added genially.

      
“I must remember to affect a Genoese accent,” she replied in what she hoped was a bantering tone. Bartolome helped her from the boat and then scanned the motley crowd of colonists, looking for a familiar face. Surely the governor would come to greet three ships sailing into the harbor laden with such badly needed supplies.

      
“You have medicines, wine?” one man, a surgeon by the look of his bloody clothes, asked. “We die like flies with fevers and bloody bowels, those of us the primitives do not strangle in our sleep.”

      
“Is there bread? Or wheat to make it? God's bones, I sicken on
cassava
cakes,” another fellow said.

      
“I am Don Bartolome Colon, the governor's brother. Where is Don Cristobal?” he asked of the most civilized looking man to venture through the press.

      
“I have heard much of you from your brother, Don Bartolome. My name is Luis Torres. I am a scholar and was the fleet interpreter. Welcome to Ysabel, such as it is. I fear Don Cristobal is off in search of more lands to claim for the Majesties. Your younger brother, Diego, is left in charge. I am certain he will be along anon.” Luis noted the way the beautiful lady studied him covertly as the other passengers disembarked amid loud shouts, shrieks of welcome and general chaos.

      
“Forgive my manners, Don Luis. This is Doña Magda-lena Valdés, the betrothed of Diego Torres, my brother's fleet marshal. I do hope he is here to greet her.”

      
Luis bowed gallantly over Magdalena's hand, an incongruous gesture for a man clad in a soiled white linen tunic that fell ungirdled to his knees. He wore much-mended hose and mud-covered boots, and his black curly hair was in sorry want of barbering. “Diego Torres' betrothed.” he said in a strange voice.

      
“Are you related to him, sir? I know of no one in his family named Luis,” Magdalena said in puzzlement.

      
Luis shrugged, glad of a momentary reprieve.
Let that stripling Colon handle this dilemma for his brothers!
“No, my lady. I have sailed with Diego, but we are not of the same family, although we do share a certain kinship, both being New Christians. I hail from Cordoba. Ah, here comes the acting governor now.”

      
Diego Colon, dressed grandly in a flowing deep blue cloak, had come to greet the supply ships. The last person on earth he wished to see was his elder brother, whom Cristobal would doubtless place in charge during all future absences. He forced a smile on his sallow face and heartily embraced Bartolome. “How come you from the royal court so soon? Were you not to see to our brother's children?”

      
“They are safely tucked away in Prince Juan's entourage as pages. I was dispatched by King Fernando with these supply ships our brother requested.” He drew Magdalena nearer and introduced her to his brother.

      
She nodded politely as she sensed the tension exuding from Diego Colon. Something was amiss between the brothers.

      
Bartolome looked about the rude shacks and half-constructed stone buildings on the plaza. “It would seem the food and medicine are badly needed.”

      
“Yes, there has been much sickness in this pestilent climate,” Diego quickly explained, ushering them away from the crowded beach toward a stark stone building on the square.

      
“There appears to be a marked lack of industry. So many men sit idly and I saw open fields bare of crops around the whole of the bay as we sailed in,” Bartolome countered.

      
Diego drew his thin body up so he stood a full two inches above his elder brother. “The men are an unskilled lot. Most who are not ill are either with our military commander setting up forts in the interior or off exploring with Cristobal.” Wanting to change the subject from his possible malfeasance, Diego returned his attention to Magdalena, who was escorted by Luis Torres. “Why have you favored Ysabel with your presence, my lady?”

      
Bartolome explained Magdalena's mission, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze.

      
“Diego Torres' betrothed?” his younger brother practically squeaked.

      
Magdalena turned to Luis and asked flatly, “Where is Diego? He is well, is he not?” Her heart constricted. So many had fallen ill.

      
Diego interrupted any possible reply from the scholar. “No, no, my brother's marshal flourishes, although he has quit his post since last we landed. He lives in a village of primitives—Indians, the colonists have taken to calling them.”

      
“He lives among the savage people, like those Don Cristobal presented at court?” Magdalena asked incredulously.

      
“Well, yes. I will send a runner to summon him,” Diego Colon said distractedly. “But first, let me offer you hospitality.” They had reached the big stone governor's residence, where an Indian waited patiently, holding open the door for the acting governor and his guests.

      
Magdalena felt a premonition of disaster as Bartolome took her arm and escorted her into the cool, dark interior.

Chapter Twelve

      
Aaron was hot, exhausted, and extremely irritated at the peremptory summons from Diego Colon. He wondered what new ill tidings there might be for the Taino. Since it was a hard day's journey for men afoot, he chanced riding one of the horses he had brought with him from Cadiz. Although of inferior bloodlines to his beloved Andaluz, the big bay was sturdy and sure-footed on the rough terrain of the twisting jungle paths and slippery mud.

      
He reined to a halt in front of the great hulking monstrosity of stone that was the governor's palace and slid from the bay. “God spare us an architect for this city named for a queen,” he muttered wryly, wiping the sweat from his brow as he gazed toward the harbor. Several new caravels bobbed easily near the shoreline. Perhaps Colon wished him to mediate some altercation between these new arrivals and the Indians.

      
Swearing beneath his breath, he strode toward the front entry and knocked. One of Diego Colon's Taino servants answered the door, clad in the loose cotton tunic the new government insisted all Indian women must wear while living in town. She ushered him toward the large audience room that took up the right side of the building, serving as a court of justice, public meeting place, and social hall.

      
“Diego, your summons said a matter of great urgency. What—” Aaron stood frozen in the doorway, ignoring the smug look on the acting governor's face. His eyes riveted on Magdalena Valdés. Dressed in a fine silk gown and gauze surcoat, she looked small and fragile, utterly out of place in this cold, masculine room. Her green eyes shone dark in her pale face. Did she tremble as she clutched the locket at her bosom?

      
“You! Why in the name of all the angels of heaven are you here, lady?”

      
Magdalena stared at the savage standing before her. Sweet Mother of God, what had she done! This stranger was practically naked, wearing only a small cloth about his hips, with a wicked looking knife strapped to his side. His skin was bronzed as darkly as any of the Tainos she had seen in town, and his hair was long and shaggy. The shadow of a beard glistened on his jaw, which was clenched in amazement and fury. Cold blue eyes pierced her as he awaited a reply to his question.

      
Her throat constricted. She took a deep breath and said, “Hello, Diego.” Before she could beg leave of the Colon brothers to talk in private with her “betrothed,” Bartolome interrupted.

      
“A passing strange way for a man to greet the lady he is to wed after she has crossed an ocean for him.” The heavyset, red-haired man stood protectively next to Magdalena, dwarfing her.

      
“The lady I am to wed?” Aaron echoed in astonishment.

      
“We were given to understand that your father arranged the match,” Diego Colon said, looking at Aaron's Taino clothing and sun-darkened body with disdain. He could scarce credit the sanity of such a beautiful woman as the Lady Magdalena, come to wed with this half-savage.

      
“My father was mayhap beguiled into friendship with this wench, but he arranged no betrothal between us, I assure you,” Aaron gritted out, turning furiously to glare at Magdalena.

      
Bartolome interposed himself between them. “I was told that you, like many other men here, kept a primitive female, but that is of no account now. You will honor your bond to this noble lady.”

      
“There is no bond,” Aaron almost shouted, eyeing the stranger who looked oddly familiar. “Who are you, her brother?”