Lion Triumphant

The Wives of Don Felipe

I HAD DINED WITH Don Felipe and we sat in the light of the candles and talked of Roberto: how he had a tooth, how he was crawling; how I was sure he had said: “Madre.”

Then I lifted my eyes and looking at him intently, I said: “I often think of my home. What news is there of England?”

“Nothing of interest. All I can think of is that the spire of St. Paul’s Cathedral was burned down and that although it was supposed it was struck by lightning a workman has now confessed—on his deathbed—that a pan of coals was carelessly left in a steeple.”

It must have been a mighty conflagration. They would have seen it in the sky along the river. My grandmother would have come into her garden to watch; and perhaps my mother would be with her. They would remember perhaps the way the smoke used to drift along from Smithfield. And my mother would remember her two girls who were lost to her.

“Darling Cat and Honey,” she would say. There would be tears in her eyes. How lonely she must be without us.

He said: “Of what are you thinking?”

“Of my mother. She will be sad thinking of me and my sister. Both of us to have been snatched away. What a tragedy for her and there have been so many tragedies in her life.”

I was silent and then he said: “You are smiling now.”

“I am thinking of our going back. She will love Roberto, her grandson. Dearly she loves children. I think I inherited that from her. And Carlos shall not be forgotten! I shall say, ‘Mother, this is my adopted son as Honey was your adopted daughter. He belongs with us now.’ We shall be happy again.”

His face was impassive and I went on: “Roberto is one year old. He is old enough to travel. Now you must keep your promise. It is time for us to go back.”

He shook his head. “You cannot take the child,” he said.

“Not take my son!”

“He is my son too.”

“Your son. What is he to you?”

“He is my son.”

“But this child is part of me. He is my own. I would never give him up.”

“He is part of me. Nor shall I give him up.” He smiled at me gently. “How your eyes blaze! There is an alternative. I would not rob a mother of her child, and as I will not give up my son, if you will keep him you must stay here.”

I was silent. Then I said: “Always you have led me to understand that you wished me no ill.”

“Nor do I.”

“You have told me that it is only because of a vow you made that I am here. You led me to believe that when you had fulfilled that vow I should be at liberty to go.”

“You are at liberty … but not to take the child with you.”

I stood up. I wanted to get away to think. He was at the door before me, barring it.

“You will never leave your child,” he said. “Why not accept what cannot be avoided? You can be happy here. What is it you want? Ask me and it shall be yours.”

“I want to go home, to England.”

“Ask anything but that.”

“It is what I want.”

“Then go.”

“And leave my child behind?”

“He shall lack nothing. He is my son.”

“I believe you are glad that he is born.”

“I was never more pleased with anything.”

“You could have been had he been born of Isabella.”

“He would not have been Roberto. He has something of you in him.”

“And that pleases you?”

“It pleases me, for if you ever went away there would be something to remind me.”

“And you wish to be reminded?”

“I do not need the reminder. I shall never forget.”

Then he drew me to him and held me against him.

“I would,” he said, “that we could have more sons like this one.”

“How could that be?”

“It is not beyond your power to understand.”

“You have a wife. Have you forgotten?”

“How could I forget?”

I said: “You never see her.”

“She screams at the sight of me.”

“She could be cured.”

“She can never be cured.”

“You loved her once.”

“I have loved one woman,” he said. “I still love her. I shall do so to the end of my life.” He looked steadily at me.

“You cannot tell me that you feel love for me, your victim? You hated coming to me as much as I hated it. You had to pretend I was Isabella. You had to remind yourself constantly of your vow.”

He took my hands and held first one to his lips and then the other.

“If you loved me,” I said, “you would wish to please me. You would let me go.”

“Ask anything but that,” he said.

I felt exultant. It was a victory. Fate had turned the tables. He was at my mercy now, not I at his.

“Tell me,” he went on, “that you do not harbor resentment against me. Tell me that you do not hate me.”

“No,” I said, “I don’t hate you. In a way I’m fond of you. You have been kind to me … apart from your violation of me, and that I will admit was conducted in a courteous manner … if one can imagine rape so being. You have tried to save me from the evil laws of your country. But you do not love me well enough to make me happy, which you would do by letting us go.”

“You ask too much,” he said. “It will be different now. You do not hate me. Could you grow fond of me?”

I said: “You cannot offer me marriage, Don Felipe, which could be the only gateway to the path you suggest.”

“Tell me this,” he said, “if I could…”

“But, Don Felipe, you cannot. You have a wife. I know she is mad and no wife to you and that is a grievous state of affairs. I know that Jake Pennlyon was in part responsible. But was he entirely so? How mad was Isabella before she came here? Let me go now. I want to think of what you have said.”

He stood back, but he still held my hands; then he kissed them with a passion unfamiliar to him. I withdrew them and with a wildly beating heart went to my room and shut myself in to think of this revelation.

Don Felipe left next morning. I had spent a disturbed night. That I could consider the possibility of marriage with him seemed absurd. Yet it was not so. He was the father of my beloved child and the child was a bond between us. Roberto was already beginning to show an awareness of him and Don Felipe was always gentle and tender toward him.

It’s ridiculous, I said; but I had to confess that I was intrigued by the situation.

I was a little disappointed to learn that he had left the Hacienda. I was restless and wanted to know more about his feelings for Isabella.

That afternoon, when most people were indulging in the siesta, I left Jennet in charge of the children and wandered off in the direction of Isabella’s house.

The sun was warm; everything seemed sleeping behind the wrought-iron gate; and as I stood there the subject of my thoughts appeared in the doorway. She was carrying the doll I had seen before and as she walked across the patio she saw me. She hesitated. I smiled and she came toward me, murmuring a greeting. I knew enough Spanish now to be able to converse a little, so I replied. She stood looking at me, which gave me an opportunity to study her features. If beauty is perfection of feature, then she was indeed beautiful. Her face was without blemish and without expression; this was indeed a beautiful shell; there was no intellect to give character to the face.

She held out the doll to me. I smiled and she smiled too. Then she opened the gate and I went into the patio.

I had not been there since that day when I had taken Carlos away. She took my hand confidingly and led me to the seat. We sat down and she chattered about her doll. I gathered that she took the doll everywhere with her. She kept saying the word muñeca. Pilar made clothes for it which came on and off.

Then suddenly her face puckered; she showed me that the doll was wearing only one shoe.

“She has dropped it,” I said. “We’ll look.”

She nodded conspiratorially and I began to search the patio while she followed me around. I was delighted to find the shoe near the gate. She clapped her hands and we went back to the seat and put it on the doll.

Suddenly she stood up and, taking my hand, drew me toward the door and led me into the house. I noticed the faint perfume with which I had become familiar; it was dark inside, for the house, like the Hacienda, had been built to shut out the sun.

There was an imposing staircase leading from the hall with its blue mosaic floor. The banisters were exquisitely carved and the ceiling of this hall was painted with angels floating on clouds. It was more splendid than I had thought it would be.

Isabella, still holding my hand, took us into a room which led from this hall; it was dark as I had come to expect and there was in it a brooding sense of mystery—or perhaps that was my mood.

Isabella indicated that I should sit down. Pilar appeared suddenly and hovered at the door. Isabella began to talk excitedly about the doll’s shoe which I had found and then she announced that she wanted to show me more of her dolls. I should come up and see.

“Bring them down, Isabella,” said Pilar.

Isabella pouted.

“Oh, yes, that is best,” said Pilar. “Come, we will go and get them.”

She took Isabella by the hand and I was left alone in the room. I looked about me at the rich draperies and the elegant Spanish furniture. This was his house, I thought, and she is his wife for all that she has the mind of a child.

It was a strange situation into which I had been thrust. I kept thinking of the passion in his eyes when he had said he would marry me. How could he while this childlike creature stood in his way?

The door opened suddenly and a young girl came in. She had dark hair and big dark eyes in an olive-colored heart-shaped face.

She said: “Señorita, forgive me.”

“Who are you?” I asked.

“I am Manuela and I work here. I wish to speak to you if I may, Señorita.”

“What is it you wish to say?”

“It is the boy … the little fellow.” Her face was illuminated by a pleasant smile. “Carlos.”

“Oh, yes.”

“I wanted to know. He is happy now?”

“He is happier than he has ever been.”

She smiled. “He is good boy,” she said. “What a boy. Maria was so cruel to him.”

“Maria? Is that the woman who lives here?” I waved my hand in the direction of the courtyard where I had first seen Carlos playing.

She nodded. “She was the boy’s foster mother. It was wrong. She is a stupid woman… She has no love for children though she has five of her own. The boy should not have been put with her. I used to speak to him.”

I warmed to her. She had been kind to Carlos; I could see by her face.

“You need no longer worry,” I told her. “I shall see that Carlos is well looked after.”

“I used to take him sweetmeats. Poor child, he had no love, and children need love as they need sweetmeats. Thank you for taking him away, Señorita.”

“You must come and see Carlos for yourself.”

“May I? You are good.”

I said: “What work do you do here?”

A faint frown appeared between her eyes. “I help in the boudoir. I am Doña Isabella’s maid.”

“You are not happy?”

“I love children, Señorita. Doña Isabella is a child in so many ways.”

“I see,” I said. She curtsied suddenly and hurried out. I wondered whether she had heard footsteps, for very shortly afterward the woman Pilar came in. Isabella was not with her.

“She is sleeping,” said Pilar. “You understand. When she reached her room she had forgotten you. It is thus sometimes.”

“Poor soul,” I said.

“Poor soul indeed.”

“Did I do wrong to speak to her?”

“She was happy to speak with you and you found the doll’s shoe, which pleased her. But she forgets from time to time.”

I said: “This did not happen overnight.”

She was silent for a while. Then she said: “She was always a little simple. She could not learn her lessons; it was not important with a lady of such high degree. She was destined to make a good marriage; her dowry was great; her family had connections with the royal house.”

“So her simplicity did not matter.”

“It was thought she would be a good wife … she would produce children and she was betrothed to Don Felipe. He is a nobleman of some wealth and he was high in favor at Court. It was a good match.”

“Even though she still played with her dolls.”

“She was a child. Fifteen. We used to say: Wait until she has a child of her own; then she will grow up.” Pilar’s eyes narrowed. “If I could lay my hands on her ravisher I would inflict on him such tortures that the world has never known. He has ruined this young life.”

“Was it not ruined before he came? From birth she was not as other children are.”

“She would have grown out of it; she would have had children.”

I was not convinced. I did not wish to defend Jake Pennlyon; he had wantonly satisfied his lust and this girl was the victim. But the blame for her plight did not lie solely with him, yet he had shocked her into some sort of awakening which was like a nightmare; he had crudely broken into her half-formed mind.

I said: “Would you prefer me not to come here?”

“No,” she said. “Come when you wish. You understand her. You do her good. You have taken the child. That is good. He is no longer a burden to us. I cannot understand how you persuaded Don Felipe to keep him at the Hacienda.”

She looked at me searchingly and I wondered how much she knew. Would she be aware that I had been brought here to satisfy Don Felipe’s lust for revenge?

As I went out I saw a man working in the gardens. He was very tall and broad for a Spaniard. He stood up and touched his cap when he saw me. Pilar led me to the gate.

“That was Edmundo,” she said. “He is strong and can help me if need be. He knows what to do if Isabella is ill. He can pick her up and carry her with the greatest ease.”

I said good-bye and told her I would come and see Isabella very soon.

I told Honey what had happened, but she did not yet know, of course, that Don Felipe had talked to me of marriage.

We thought it sad that Isabella had been simpleminded and that it was incongruous that she should have been given in marriage to such a fastidious and intellectual man as Don Felipe.

I told her about the girl Manuela who had asked after Carlos.

“She was rather wistful,” I said. “She must have been fond of him.”

“We could do with help in the nursery. Do you think she could come here?”

“I’m sure of it,” I said, certain that Don Felipe would not refuse me such a request.

We discussed Isabella’s preoccupation with her dolls and Honey suggested we make doll’s clothes and take them to her. We did this—making a gown from some pieces of velvet and a lovely ruff in stiff lace.

Isabella was delighted when we took them to the Casa Azul. That was a peaceful afternoon. We sat in the patio and she had two dolls which she proudly showed us. She cried out with delight when she tried on the velvet gown which fitted the doll perfectly.

Pilar brought out a mint drink and with it some little spiced cakes. Isabella laughed gaily and prattled as a child will about the doings of her dolls.

The fact that Isabella was made happy by our coming meant that Pilar welcomed us.

After that afternoon we frequently called. Isabella would be waiting for us in the patio. Now and then we saw the big Edmundo at work in the gardens keeping his eyes on Isabella. Manuela was there sometimes, which gave Honey an opportunity to assess her. She thought she would make an excellent addition to our nursery.

And so the days passed until Don Felipe came back to the Hacienda.

The day he returned he asked me to come to the escritorio. Our meetings always took place there. Other rooms would not have afforded us the secrecy we needed; and the apartment which had become mine held too many memories of our first encounters which I knew would have been distasteful to him.

As soon as I entered he came to me and took my hands in his and kissed them with fervor.

“There is much I have to say to you,” he said. “I have been turning over these things in my mind while I have been away. I must find some way of bringing about our union. If I do not my life is as wasteful as the desert. I know that you do not hate me, Catalina.” He said my name lingeringly, giving it a quality it had not had before. “You could bring yourself to marry me.”

“But there is no question of marriage. How could there be?”

He sighed. “I have debated the matter with myself. A dispensation from the Pope would be impossible, I fear. Yet I have no hope of legitimate sons if I do not remarry; I could give sons to the church, to my country. Isabella’s family is influential, more so than my own. A dispensation would never be granted.”

“Then it is useless to continue these suppositions.”

“There must be a way. There is always a way. I must tell you this—in a short time Don Luis Herrera will be arriving. He is going to take over the governorship from me, but not immediately. He will need a year, perhaps more, to learn what I have to teach him. These islands are of the utmost value to Spain; they are the gateway to the new world. We must hold them and we are continually assailed. Therefore, the new Governor must understand what is expected of him. In a year … two at most … I shall return to Madrid. Catalina, I am going to take you with me … as my wife.”

“Do Spanish Dons have two wives then?”

“She is not healthy, poor Isabella,” he said slowly. “These fits are becoming more frequent.”

“You are willing her to die.”

He was silent for a moment and then he said: “What can her life be? What has she?”

“She seems happy enough with her dolls.”

“Dolls—and she a grown woman!”

“She is not a woman. She is a child. You loved her once.”

He looked at me steadily. “I have loved but once, and I shall go on loving one woman to the end of my days.”

“Don Felipe!”

“Do not say Don Felipe. To you I am Felipe. Say it as though you are close to me. It would give me great pleasure to hear you.”

“When I say it I will say it naturally.”

“It will happen,” he said. “I know it.”

“So you never loved Isabella,” I insisted. “Tell me the truth.”

“It was a worthy match. Hers is one of the greatest families in Spain.”

“So it was for this reason only that you wished to marry her?”

“It is for such reason that marriages are arranged.”

“And when you came back and found her after Jake Pennlyon had been, you were mad with rage, not for love of this simpleminded child but because of the affront to your pride. This had happened to her when she was under your protection. That was why you vowed to be revenged.”

“Yet,” he said, “all this has brought me you.”

“It is better to say no more of that. Let me go back to England. My son is old enough to travel now.”

“And lose you both!”

“It is better for you. You are a man of great standing. You will go back to Madrid and take up a post of great importance. Perhaps in due course you will be in a position to marry. Who can say? But you should let me go.”

“I cannot lose both you and the child. You are more to me than anything on Earth.”

The fact that he spoke these words in a quiet, restrained manner gave them force. I was suddenly afraid of the passion which I had aroused in this cold man.

He began to talk eagerly. “If we were married I could legitimize Roberto. I have rich lands and estates in Spain. He should be my heir and there would be a goodly portion for other children we might have. We should live graciously. Perhaps I should retire from the Court. Our children would have every comfort that you would wish for them.”

I let myself dwell on the prospect, which was strange because although I loved Roberto beyond everything and in a way wanted those rich estates for him I longed for home. I wanted to see my mother, to witness the happiness in her face when she knew that her girls were safe and alive; I wanted to see the fruit trees in blossom in the spring. In short, I wanted to go home.

I said to him: “You speak of dreams. You have a wife. I am sorry for you. I am sorry for us all. But Isabella stands between you and what you hope for.”

And I left him because I wanted to brood on my feelings which were by no means clear to me. There were times when I felt a great relief because Isabella stood between us and there could be no change in our relationship because of this; but at others I was not so sure.

Weeks grew into months. There was an uneasy tension in the house. I was constantly aware of Felipe’s brooding eyes on me. He often visited the nurseries and Roberto, who knew him well, used to clap his hands when he saw him.

Manuela had joined Jennet there and although the two of them were not as friendly as I would have wished them to be there was no outward friction.

My son was nearly two years old. So it was three years since we had left England. Much of it seemed far away, but there were moments which I could remember with such clarity that they might have happened but a day before; and most of these concerned my mother. If I could have seen her and if she could live close to me and if there had been no Isabella I think I would have agreed to marry Felipe.

I was not in love with him; but it was impossible to live in the Hacienda and not respect him. His dignity was unquestionable. His justice was apparent in his treatment of those who offended—not that many dared. He was admirable. He was a man of power and a man in command appealed to me. I knew what marriage would entail with him; he would be no stranger in my bed. I knew that I could expect courtesy, gentleness and now a tenderness in our relationship. He loved me with a quiet intensity which I found comforting. I could see a pleasant life opening out before me. I did not expect to love, as I had loved Carey, but I could accept Felipe, and I thought of all the advantages he could bring to me and my son. Roberto would be heir to vast estates. He would receive the best of educations. He would be brought up in the Catholic church, of course, and he would go to Spain and the fact that he had an English mother would be no hindrance with the power of Don Felipe behind him.

During one of my talks with Felipe I said as much. It would be different if Isabella were not there. On the other hand, I was thankful to her. She prevented my having to make a decision which would have been immensely difficult for me.

So during that time I was living in a period of indecision. I knew now that Don Felipe would never allow me to return to England—either with or without my child. Not that I would consider going without Roberto. And I knew too that Isabella stood between our making any decision.

That this was just an intermediary period was brought home to us by the arrival of Luis Herrera, the man who would in time take Felipe’s place.

Don Luis was a handsome man, slightly younger than Felipe—charming, good-looking, courteous. It was apparent from the first moment that he saw Honey that he was deeply affected by her.

Whenever I looked at her I wondered why Don Felipe should have set such store by me when Honey was there. She was superbly beautiful with her violet eyes and dark hair. I knew that she lacked my vitality; she was no fighter, as I was; it had always been her way to let life flow over her, or if she did feel strongly to brood over it and withdraw into herself.

However, she did none of this with Don Luis and it was clear that they liked each other’s company from the start.

Don Luis brought news from the outside world. The four of us dined together—Honey and Luis, myself and Felipe. Felipe’s excuse for this was that it made a pleasant party.

Luis talked a great deal about England. Since we had left, the rivalry between Spain and England had intensified. We heard that the Queen, so unsafe did she feel on the throne, had imprisoned the Lady Catherine Grey—who had some claim—in the Tower for marrying without royal permission.

“She is afraid that there will be offspring to challenge her rights,” said Don Luis. “Yet she remains unmarried. And how can an unmarried woman beget heirs?”

I winced, but only Felipe noticed.

“She has been mightily sick of the smallpox and it was feared in England, though hoped in Spain, that she would die. Even then she refused to appoint an heir.”

“You forget, Don Luis,” I said, “that you speak of our Queen.”

“A thousand pardons. I thought but to give you the truth.”

“Of course we want the truth,” I replied. “But if our Queen refuses to appoint an heir it is because she knows that many years are left to her and she will beget her own.”

Don Luis was too polite to debate the point.

Honey laid a hand on his arm. “Don’t let Catalina”—they had all begun to call me Catalina—“stop your telling us the news. We long to hear it.”

“I’ll tell you something else,” said Luis. “One of your Captains, John Hawkins, has started dealing in slaves.”

“Dealing in slaves!” I cried.

“Indeed he has. He has fitted three ships and taken them to the Guinea Coast. There he captures Negroes and takes them to that part of the world where he thinks to get the highest price for them.”

“You mean he just picks people as though they were … plants and takes them away from their families. It’s monstrous.”

Felipe was regarding me steadily.

I saw myself … a slave. I saw my little Roberto snatched from me … perhaps taken from me to be a slave himself or left behind while I was carried away in chains. I have always, I think, more than most people, put myself in the places of others; it was one of the reasons I waxed vehement when I thought justice had failed to be done.

Felipe said: “Your English Captain Hawkins has done this. You should not hanker for that island of yours. Is it not true, Luis, that some of the ships used by Hawkins belonged to the Queen of England? And this, Catalina, sets her seal of approval on this horrible trade.”

Luis said: “You should be thankful that you are here…” And he smiled at us both. “Perhaps we all have reasons to be thankful.” He threw a soulful look in Honey’s direction. “For life goes on uncertainly in your island. Each day the English become a greater menace to us on the high seas. We are a great and powerful nation. We intend to colonize the whole world. And one day we shall take over your island too. You will become a vassal of Spain.”

“You do not know us,” I said fiercely. And I thought of Jake Pennlyon then. I would stake all I had on him when set against these courtly gentlemen. Even hating him as I did, I knew that his courage was supreme and his love of his country as natural to him as drawing breath.

“We begin to,” said Luis, smiling gently. “A formidable enemy. Our most formidable! There should be peace between us. We should unite without fighting.”

“That could never be,” I said.

“I think so too,” put in Felipe gently, “but it is a pity.”

“Your country is losing her possessions on the continent of Europe,” went on Luis. “Warwick has surrendered Le Havre to the French. The English will never regain a foothold in France and the only spoils of war which Warwick has brought back to England from France are the plagues. Twenty thousand persons have been carried off by one in and around the city of London.”

I turned pale thinking of my mother and the old days when the sweating sickness had visited the Capital.

It was good to hear news of England though, even if it was not good news. I believed that it was colored to be advantageous to Spain and I could understand that; but how strange it was that the men who loved us (for Luis clearly was in love with Honey) should have been so gratified by the misfortunes which befell those who were dear to us.

Honey explained to me: “I have been without a husband so long, Catalina. I am young.”

“You are older than I.”

“But young. Admit it, Catalina. And I am fond of Luis.”

“You are not in love with him.”

“I can settle for him.”

“And Edward?”

“Edward is dead. You know, don’t you, that we are never going to leave this place. We shall spend the rest of our time here. Even if Don Felipe were willing to let us go, how could we? Could we sail to England in a Spanish galleon and be rowed ashore! ‘Here are your women now returned to you!’ Imagine that. They would have forgotten us at home. What should become of us?”

“You think Mother would ever forget us? Grandmother too. I long to be home with them.”

“I want that too, but it is not to be. We know it is not to be. That is clear. Don Felipe loves you and he loves Roberto. He will never let you go. Be reasonable. He is a good man.”

“A man who is so determined on revenge that he forces a woman to share his bed—not out of lust for her but for revenge.”

“That is over.”

“Over! For you perhaps. You were not violated.”

“And that violation gave you Roberto, whom you love dearly. Try to look at life reasonably, sister. Sometimes good comes from evil. You were brought here against your will and the result is the son whom you love so deeply. The man who sought revenge has found love. Be reasonable. Life does not give you exactly what you most want, but it serves a very palatable dish. Be wise, Catalina, don’t turn away from it.”

“And become his mistress?”

“You would have all the honors of a wife.”

I said coldly: “Talk of yourself, Honey, but leave me out of it.”

“Well,” she said, “I am going to marry Luis.”

“A foreigner, and enemy of our country.”

“What are countries to women who love? I am a woman. I have been long without a husband. I need a husband and Luis is good. He will be a father to Edwina.”

I was silent, and she went on gently: “Perhaps you will go away from here after a while but, I shall stay, for Luis will be Governor in due course.”

“Then we shall say good-bye.”

“Only au revoir. Because, Catalina, when our spell is done, and it will not be more than eight years, we shall come to Madrid and there we shall see you in your beautiful home with Roberto and Carlos playing there with their brothers and sisters. Just think of it.”

“A pretty picture,” I said. “Marry your Luis if you so need to marry. Have your children. What matters it, one man is as good as another to some.”

“Why do you speak thus? Ah, I know. It is because my way is plain. Yours is not. You are not indifferent to Felipe. You change when he is in the house. I am sorry Catalina that Isabella stands in your way.”

“Isabella stands in your way.” The phrase haunted me. I dreamed of Felipe often. And he was there at the side of my bed and Isabella was beside him—a pale, shadowy child with a doll in her arms.

Honey and Luis were married in the Cathedral. She was the most beautiful bride I had ever seen and there was about her that serene happiness which had been there before Edwina’s birth.

Honey had always wanted to be loved, had blossomed with love; and there was no doubt that Luis adored her.

The wedding was celebrated at the Hacienda and there was feasting and the people of the surrounding villages were invited to come and dance which they did in the gardens. It was a wonderful sight with the girls and young men in the traditional costumes dancing the Andalusian dances which had been brought from the mainland. They danced and sang to the tunes played on the timple and I heard for the first time the Isa and the Folias.

Songs were sung praising the newly married couple and marriage in general, and afterward the bride and groom returned to the bedchamber and there was none of that ribaldry which would have accompanied such a ceremony at home.

That night I lay sleepless for a long time and I thought: We are farther from home than ever. Honey has accepted her fate and if we could go home now she would not leave her husband. Honey has become one of them. And how could I go and leave Honey here?

I thought: If my mother knew where I was; if I might see her now and then, I could do worse than marry Felipe. He would be a good and devoted husband; Roberto loved his father—how could I separate them?

I was becoming more and more convinced that my life lay here.

In my dreams I took Don Felipe’s hand and I was to be married in the Cathedral, for I would adopt his faith; and then I heard the childish tinkling laughter of Isabella.

And I awoke with the words “Not while Isabella lives” ringing in my ears.

Felipe wished us to take a trip inland …

It would be good for the children, he said. I had only seen the great mountain Pico de Teide from the sea. I should see how truly magnificent it was. He himself had to go to another part of the island, and while he was away our nursery should be transported to a house in the valley which he used sometimes. His servants would look after us. We would come back refreshed after our little holiday.

I knew that there was some motive behind this suggestion. Don Felipe was a man of mysteries. One would often wonder how much his inner feelings belied those which he expressed, but this, in a manner, was a source of fascination to me.

When I learned that there was to be an auto-da-fé in La Laguna I thought I understood. Members of his household would be expected to attend and I was known to be an important member of that household—the Governor’s mistress. If I were absent, this would be noted. He did not wish to expose me to that which he knew was abhorrent to me; moreover, he would doubtless fear that I might betray my repulsion. Hence our trip into the mountains.

I was touched by his concern for me. I was beginning more and more to enjoy basking in his care for me.

We set out on mules with packhorses to carry all that we wished to take with us. We had a litter in which the children traveled and Honey. Jennet, Manuela and I took it in turns to ride with them. Sometimes we would carry one before us on our mule. It was a great game to them.

Carlos, with Jacko in his wake, was adventurous. What one would expect, I thought, of Jake Pennlyon’s sons. I believe he had completely put behind him those nightmare days in the shack behind the Casa Azul. He was a child who would come through life unscathed, like his father. There was nothing of poor Isabella in him; he was all Jake Pennlyon. Jacko would be the same, for he followed Carlos in all things.

It was not a long journey, some thirty miles in all, and I was struck by the exotic beauty of the land. We passed a magnificent old dragon tree which was said to be over two thousand years old. I remembered that it was from the resin of this tree that the native Guanches stained their skins when they went in to do battle with their Spanish conquerors. John Gregory—with whom I had formed a kind of understanding—told me of this. Richard Rackell also accompanied us and we took about six servants and a party of half a dozen strong men in case we should need protection.

I was amused by the amount of trouble Don Felipe had taken to get us away from La Laguna.

We arrived in due course at the house in the mountains where we were to stay. We were treated with great respect since we had come from the Governor’s Hacienda. And there in the shadow of the white-topped Pico de Teide we spent some pleasant days.

We rode out into the mountains; we gathered golden oranges; we played games with the children. It was a happy time. Honey missed Don Luis, who had remained behind to take charge in Felipe’s absence. As for myself I was content to be there in those impressive surroundings dominated by the great conical mountain. Felipe had given me books in Spanish so that I might learn something of Spain and improve my knowledge of the language. In these I had read of the Canaries too and of Tenerife in particular, which had been given the name of the Garden of Atlas in which golden apples grew. These were the oranges and the dragon trees were set there to guard this delightful spot.

It was with some regret that I turned my mule homeward toward La Laguna.

There a shock awaited us.

Isabella was dead.

A terrible fear came to me and hung over me like a dark shadow, for Isabella had fallen from the top of the staircase on the Casa Azul and broken her neck. It had happened five days after we had left—on the day of the auto-da-fé.

I was aghast. It had happened so neatly. I was away; Don Felipe was away. How many times had he said: “If it were not for Isabella”?

I wished that he had never mentioned marriage to me. I wished that Isabella was still in the patio at the Casa Azul playing with her dolls.

Don Felipe had come home. He greeted me courteously but coolly; but I was aware of the intensity of the passion which he suppressed.

Jennet was agog with excitement. It was she who told us how it had happened. She had had a detailed account from her lover in the stables.

I made her tell me all she knew.

“’Twere like this, Mistress,” she said, “’twere the day of the auto and the whole household had gone into Laguna.”

“Pilar would not leave her.”

“She did. She did this once. You see it was the day of the auto … a sacred duty to go.”

I closed my eyes. Oh, God, I thought. Everyone was sent away … because it was the day of the auto-da-fé. It was a sacred duty to attend. Everyone was afraid of not attending … and even Pilar went. Had he planned it just so?

“And what of her … the poor young creature?”

“Well, she didn’t go, Mistress. None ’ud expect her to. She was to stay behind with her dolls.”

“Someone was with her?”

“Edmundo, the big man…” Jennet could not help the lilt in her voice, even when recounting such an event as this, at the mention of Edmundo, the big man. “He were there. Working in the garden. He could see to her if she was took bad. They say he could lift her when she was kicking and screaming as easy as though she were a rag doll.”

“Someone else was in the house, surely?”

“Two of the maids … silly little things.”

“Where were they?”

“They said they’d left her sleeping. It was hot … and she was taking her siesta. The next thing she was found at the bottom of the staircase.”

“Who found her?”

“The two maids. They went to her room and she weren’t there. Then they came down the stairs and there she was lying there. They said there was something strange about the way she lay there. And then they went and looked and they ran screaming to Edmundo. He saw what was wrong and left her just as she’d fallen. ‘She’s gone,’ he said. ‘Poor mad soul. She’s gone.’”

I had closed the shutters and was lying on my bed. I wanted to lie in the darkness, but even so that brilliant sun penetrated between the shutters and there was some light in the room.

The door opened slowly and Felipe was standing by the bed, looking down at me.

I said: “You should not be here.”

“I had to see you.”

“There are other places.”

“To see you alone,” he said. “Now she is dead…”

“So recently dead, so strangely dead,” I interrupted.

“She fell and killed herself. It is a wonder she did not fall before.”

“She fell when she was more or less alone in the house. Everyone but the two maids and Edmundo had gone to the auto-da-fé. Pilar had gone.”

“It was their duty to go. It was rarely that she was left almost alone in the house.”

“It needed only once.”

“She is dead. You know what that means. I am free.”

“It is not wise to say such things. The servants listen.”

He smiled faintly. “Once I so cautioned you.”

“It is of more importance now than then.”

“You are right. We will wait, but the waiting will be easy because in the end I shall have my heart’s desire.”

“You remember my Queen and her lover. He had a wife, Amy Robsart. She died. She fell down a staircase. Why, how like this! It could almost seem that one who had been impressed by that incident had decided to repeat it.”

“Lord Robert Dudley murdered his wife with your Queen’s connivance.”

“Did he? I think you are right. Some say it was suicide. Some an accident.”

“But many knew the truth.”

“The Queen dared not marry him.”

“It was because she would not stomach a rival on the throne.”

“That … and because to have married him would have been to connive at murder … and maybe run the risk of being suspect.”

“That may be.”

“Don Felipe,” I said, “you are in like case. Amy Robsart’s servants went to a Fair; yours went to an auto-da-fé. Then when the house is almost empty your wife dies.”

“Many times she has been saved from inflicting harm on herself.”

“And this time there was no one to save her. There will be people to talk. If you married now, Don Felipe, there might be some to say you had rid yourself of a wife to do so.”

“I am the master here … Governor of these islands.”

“My Queen was the mistress of England. She was wise.”

He looked momentarily forlorn; then he lifted his head and I saw the stern pride of him, the determination to succeed. It was this which had made him undertake the intricate operation of bringing me to Tenerife. He was now equally determined to marry me, to proclaim Roberto his legitimate heir. He would stop at nothing.

And I asked myself: Felipe, what part did you play in this? You were not here when Isabella died. But you did not come to England to bring me here. You are a man who sets himself a goal and employs others to carry it out. Have a care, Don Felipe.

He held out a hand to me, but I did not take it.

“Go now,” I said. “Take care. Let no one see in what direction your ambitions lie.”

He left me then and I lay on in my darkened room.

Isabella was buried with accompanying pomp.

It was said that she had been possessed by devils as she had attempted to descend the stairs and as she had been seen to do so many times fell and so met her death.

Death set a shadow over the household. Only in the nursery did it fail to penetrate and Honey and I spent a great deal of our time there. The weeks began to pass; we fell back into our routine.

Often I would think about Isabella and wonder what had really happened. Had she suddenly missed Pilar? Had she gone to look for her? I thought of her often, standing at the top of that staircase and then suddenly falling to the bottom. I pictured her lying there. Poor little Isabella.

How often had he said: “If it were not for Isabella”? But he had been away.

Lord Robert Dudley had been away from Cumnor Place at the time of his wife’s death; but that did not exonerate him from murder.

Men such as Sir Robert and Don Felipe did not do evil deeds themselves. They employed others to do them for them.

Edmundo was at the Casa Azul; he was the strong man; he had picked up Isabella and carried her as though she were a rag doll. He was Felipe’s servant. Would he do anything his master asked … anything?

So ran my tormented thoughts.

Six months had passed and Felipe said to me: “It is time we married.”

“It is too soon,” I said.

“I cannot wait forever.”

“Six months ago you had a wife.”

“I have no wife now … nor did I ever have a wife.”

“I know it to be unwise.”

“I will protect you. Shortly we shall go to Spain. I must take you with me.”

“We should wait awhile.”

“I will wait no longer.”

“I am undecided. I think often of my home. My mother will never forget me. She mourns me now.”

“Tell me you will marry me and I will have a message sent to your mother. It is folly. It is dangerous. But this I will do to show you how much I care for you.”

I looked at him and I felt a great tenderness surge over me. He held out his arms and I went toward him. I was held firmly against him. I could no longer resist love such as he was offering.

Had I not learned most bitterly that one does not hold out for the perfection of one’s dreams? Honey knew it. She had taken Edward and enjoyed some happiness and now with Luis. And this man had proved to me that he regarded me with a tender devotion which amazed even himself. I could not reject that.

He said: “My love, you shall write a letter to your mother. You will tell her that you are well and happy. John Gregory shall take it. We will arrange it. The next ship that leaves shall carry him. There is one stipulation: You must mention no names; you must not mention where you are. I must run no risks. But, my Catalina, this shall be done. You will see how I love you!”

And so I promised to marry Don Felipe.

We were married quietly in the little private chapel of the Hacienda. I was not unhappy; sometimes I laughed within myself, for I could not help remembering the occasion of my humiliation when I had no alternative but to submit to him; I remembered how he had ordered that I should wear gowns made for Isabella, use scent which was hers, so that as he lay with me he should imagine I was the beautiful girl bride. There was no one but myself he wished to think of now. But Isabella was a shadow between us. More so for him than for me.

How changed everything was. How he loved me, this strange quiet man! How strange that he, whose emotions were so rarely aroused, should feel this searing passion for one of an enemy race, a race he despised as barbarians; and here was one who was typical of that race—and yet he loved her.

I never forget that he had allowed me to send a letter to my mother. I used to dream of her in the old Abbey garden and I held imaginary conversations with her. I believed I was never far from her thoughts.

Perhaps by now, I would promise myself, she is receiving that letter. She is weeping over it; she would tuck it into her bodice and say: “My darling Cat’s hands have touched this!” And it would never leave her.

So I must be grateful to Felipe.

He loved me and he loved our son. To us alone did he show that part of his nature which was capable of loving. It had once occurred to me that when he loved it would be with a single-minded devotion. How right I had been! He now gave to love that intensity of passion which he had once given to revenge.

He abandoned himself to moments of great happiness and at the very heart of that happiness was myself and our son.

He loved to lie on our bed with me in his arms and talk of our future. I loved to hear him say our boy’s name. He said it differently when we were alone together. I felt an emotion welling up within me because such a cold stern man could love so much.

“Catalina, Catalina, my love,” he would whisper to me.

He was indeed happy and it is gratifying to realize one has brought such joy to another human being.

His first task was to legitimize Roberto. Ships came now and then from Spain to Tenerife bringing men from the Escorial, where Felipe’s master lived in spartan state. Papers came from Madrid and he gleefully showed them to me.

“Roberto is my firstborn,” he said. “It is now as though we had been married when he was born. There will be no barriers to his inheritance.”

“And Carlos?” I asked.

His brow darkened. He had never liked Carlos although he had accepted his presence in our nurseries to please me.

“He shall have nothing of mine, but his mother’s family will make him a rich man.”

That contented me.

Felipe talked often of the time when we would go to Spain. He was anxious to return now. Don Luis was ready to take over his responsibilities. There was no reason why we should not go.

We were blind to imagine that we could have married and none question it. The Queen of England had not dared to marry her lover after her lover’s wife had died mysteriously. Should the Governor of a small island be less immune?

There were whispers.

It was Manuela who first brought them to my knowledge.

“Mistress,” she said, her brow puckered, “they are saying you are a witch.”

“I … a witch. What nonsense is this?”

“They are saying that you have bewitched the Governor. He were never as he is with you, before.”

“Why should he be. I am his wife.”

“He had a wife before, Senora.”

“This is nonsense. You know what the Governor’s first wife was like.”

“She were possessed by devils.”

“She was simpleminded, half-mad.”

“Possessed, they say. And that you commanded the devils to possess her.”

I burst out laughing. “Then I hope you tell them what fools they were. She was possessed before I ever knew of her existence. You are aware of that.”

“But they says she was possessed and you sent the devils to possess her.”

“They are mad themselves.”

“Yes,” she said uneasily. But that was the beginning.

They watched me furtively. When I went into La Laguna I was aware of averted eyes and if I turned sharply I would find people were looking back at me. Once I heard the whispered word “Witch.”

At the Casa Azul the shutters were closed. I heard that Pilar walked through the house lamenting. She stood at the top of the stairs and called to Isabella to come back to her, to tell her what happened on that fateful afternoon.

Felipe pretended to be indifferent to the tension which was building up, but he did not deceive me. He came to our bedroom one evening and his face was set and anxious. He had spent most of the day in La Laguna.

He said: “I would we were in Madrid. Then this nonsense would end.”

“What nonsense is this?” I asked.

“There has been much talk. Someone has been to La Laguna and talked recklessly. There is no alternative. A certain course will be taken.”

“What course?”

“I am speaking of Isabella’s death. There is to be an inquiry.”

Manuela sat mending Carlos’ tunic. Her hands trembled as she did so.

I said: “What ails you, Manuela?”

She lifted her great sorrowful eyes to my face.

“They have taken Edmundo away to be questioned. He was the one to find her. She was lying at the foot of the staircase with her neck broken. He was the one. They will question him.”

“He will satisfy them with his answers,” I said, “and then he will come home.”

“People who are taken for questioning often do not come back.”

“Why should not Edmundo?”

“When they question,” she said, “they will have the answer they want.”

“Edmundo will be all right. He was always so good with Isabella. She was fond of him.”

“She is dead,” said Manuela, “and he is taken for questioning.”

I had learned since Manuela came to us that she and Edmundo had both been in the retinue Isabella had brought with her from Spain. Manuela had been one of her maids and Edmundo had known how to look after her when she was “possessed.” When the raiders had come Manuela had hidden and so saved herself; and she had been with Isabella during the months of pregnancy and the birth of Carlos. She had loved the child and tried to protect him from the alternate devotion and dislike of his mother; and when the boy had been put in charge of that dreadful harridan she had done what she could to help him.

It was understandable that she should be sad because Edmundo had been taken in.

I was astonished at the outcome of the questioning. Edmundo confessed that he had murdered his mistress. He had stolen a cross studded with rubies from her jewel box to give to a girl whom he wished to please. Isabella had caught him in the act of taking the cross and because he feared the consequences he had suffocated her by placing a damp cloth over her mouth. Then he had thrown her down the stairs.

He was hanged in the plaza of La Laguna.

“That is the end of the affair,” said Felipe.

I could not get out of my mind the memory of big Edmundo lifting poor Isabella so gently in his arms as I had seen him do when she was suffering.

“He was so gentle,” I said. “I cannot believe him capable of murder.”

“There are many sides to men and women,” Felipe answered.

“It is hard to believe this of Edmundo,” I said.

“He has confessed and the matter is at an end, my love.”

I was disturbed but glad that I could consider the mystery solved.

Christmas came and went. I thought of home and the mummers, the wassailing and the Christmas bush. I wondered whether John Gregory had reached England yet and whether my mother had my letter.

What a Christmas gift that would be for her!

To Felipe’s disappointment I had not conceived. I was not sure whether I was disappointed or not. I longed for children, and yet I could not forget Isabella; even though Edmundo had confessed to murdering her, she still seemed to stand between me and my husband. Sometimes I felt that my husband was a stranger to me. I never thought for one moment that he had ever loved Isabella. I believed him when he said that there had been one love in his life and that I was that love. That was something he could not hide. His love for me was expressed a hundred times during a single day. It was in the very inflection of his voice. Moreover, I had given him Roberto—a sturdy little fellow now three years of age… But there was something Felipe held back even from me, and perhaps for this reason I willed myself not to conceive. The fact remains that I did not, although I was not unhappy.

It was never cold in Tenerife, for there was very little difference between the winter and summer; the only unpleasant days were those when the south winds blew from Africa and this was not frequent. I liked the damp warm atmosphere and I did not want to leave it for the extremes of temperature which I believed we should experience in Spain. I often thought of the cold winter days at home in the Abbey. Once the Thames had frozen and we had been able to walk across it. I remembered sitting around the great log fire in the hall and how the mummers had slapped their frozen hands into life before beginning their performance. I remembered so much of home; and sometimes I felt a dull pain in my throat, so great was my longing for it.

Yet here I had a husband who loved me and a sweet son.

In January the Cavalcade of the Three Wise Men took place and we took the children into La Laguna to watch it. What excitement there was and I listened with delight to the chattering children.

Yes, there was so much that I enjoyed.

Time slipped away and it was Holy Week and this was a time of great celebration. There were more processions in the town and when I saw the white robed figures coming from the Cathedral I was reminded so poignantly of the day I had sat in the plaza and looked on the misery of men, I felt suddenly nauseated; and a poignant longing for home swept over me.

I had talked of my sudden desire for home to Honey and she admitted that she felt this too. She was adored by Don Luis; she had her little daughter even as I had my son; but our home was something we should never forget; and I believe that at the very heart of it was my mother—for Honey as well as for me.

We had ridden into La Laguna on our mules to see the Holy Week procession and left the children at home because we feared they might be hurt in the crowds. Honey and I stood side by side. There were two grooms with us; we were never allowed to go far without protection. And as we stood on the edge of the crowd I felt someone press against me.

I turned sharply and looked into a pair of fanatical eyes which looked straight into mine.

“Pilar,” I said.

“Witch,” she hissed. “Heretic witch.”

I started to tremble. Crowds in this plaza brought with them such hideous memories.

I said to Felipe: “I saw the woman Pilar in the town. She hates me. I could see by the way she looked at me.”

“She was devoted to her charge. She had been with her since her birth.”

“I think she believes that I am responsible for her death.”

“She is distraught. She will grow away from her grief.”

“I have rarely seen such hatred in any eyes as was in hers when she looked at me. She called me a witch … a heretic witch.”

I was unprepared for the change in Felipe’s expression. Fear was clearly to be seen as his lips formed the word “heretic.” Then suddenly that control which was so much a part of his character seemed to desert him. He took me into his arms and held me tightly against him.

“Catalina,” he said, “we are going to Madrid. We must not stay here.”

A terrible fear had begun to overshadow me. When darkness fell I would often fancy I was being watched. I could not specifically say how. It was just that I would hear footsteps which seemed to follow me; or the quiet shutting of a door when I was in a room, so that it seemed that someone had opened it to watch me and then quietly shut it and gone away. On one or two occasions I fancied someone had been in my room. Some familiar object had been moved from its place and I was sure I had not done this.

I admonished myself. I was allowing my imagination to take possession of my good sense. Since Isabella’s death and my marriage—the one a natural sequence of the other—the tension had been gradually rising. I could not forget Pilar’s face when she looked at me and whispered those words: “Witch. Heretic witch” and in my mind had conjured up such horror as I dared not brood on.

It came into my mind that there was hatred around me. Some evil force was trying to destroy me. I knew this was so when I found the image in my drawer.

I had opened it unsuspectingly and there looking up at me was the figure. It was made of wax and represented a beautiful girl with black hair piled high and in that hair was a miniature comb. Her gown was of velvet and the resemblance struck me immediately. Isabella! It could not be meant to resemble anyone else.

I picked it up. What horror possessed me then, for protruding from her gown, at that spot beneath which her heart would have been, was a pin.

Someone had put the thing in my drawer. Who? Someone had made that thing in the image of Isabella. Someone had stuck a pin through the heart and put it in my drawer!

I stood there with it in my hand.

The door had opened. I looked up startled and saw a dark reflection in the mirror.

To my relief I realized that it was only Manuela.

I held the figure crushed in my hand and turned to her. I wondered whether she noticed how shaken I was.

“The children are ready to say good night,” she said.

“I’ll come, Manuela.”

She disappeared and I stood staring at the thing in my hand; then I thrust it to the back of the drawer and went to the nursery.

I could not listen to what the children were saying. I could only think of that horrible thing and its significance.

Who had put it there? Someone who wished me ill. Someone who was accusing me of bringing about Isabella’s death. I must destroy it with all speed. While it was there I was unsafe.

As soon as I had tucked the children in and kissed them good night I went back to my room.

I opened my drawer. The figure had disappeared.

I told Felipe what I had found and I was immediately aware of the terrible fear this aroused in him.

“And it was gone?” he cried. “You should never have put it back in the drawer. You should have destroyed it immediately.”

“It means that someone believes I killed Isabella.”

“It means,” he said, “that someone is trying to prove that you are a witch.”

I did not have to ask him what that meant.

“I was accused of that on the ship,” I said. I shivered. “I came near to a horrible death.”

“Some of the sailors must have talked. We must get away from here quickly.”

He speeded up preparations for our departure.

Fear had certainly entered the Hacienda. The great shadow of the Inquisition hung over us. Sometimes I would awaken shouting, having dreamed I was in that square. I was looking on from the box … looking on at myself in the hideous sanbenito. I could hear the crackle of flames at my feet. I would awake crying out from my dream and Felipe would take me in his arms and comfort me.

“Soon,” he said, “we shall be safe in Madrid.”

“Felipe,” I asked, “what if they should come and take me … how would they come?”

He answered: “They come often at night. There would be the knock on the door. We should hear the words: ‘Open in the name of the Holy Office.’ Those are the words none dare disobey.”

“And they would take me away then, Felipe. They would question me. I should answer their questions. What have I to fear?”

“All have something to fear when they fall into the hands of the Inquisition.”

“The innocent…”

“Even the innocent.”

“If they believe you to be a witch they would take you,” he said. “If they should come by night I shall hide you. We must pretend that you have disappeared, that you are indeed a witch and you have invoked the Devil to aid you. There is a secret door in the bedchamber.” He showed it to me. “You will hide in here until such time as I can save you.”

“Felipe, would Pilar inform against me?”

“It may well be,” he answered. “And if she does they will come for you.”

“Do you believe she has?”

“I cannot say. People are wary of going to the Holy Office even to lay information against others, for it has happened that in so doing they have become involved themselves. We will pray that Pilar has not said to others what she has said to you.”

I trembled in his arms and he said soothingly: “It is not like you to be afraid, my love. We will outwit any who come against us.”

“If you hid me, Felipe,” I said, “would that not be an act against the Inquisition?”

He was silent.

I went on: “You would act against the Inquisition for my sake? You would preserve a heretic in your house because you love her?”

“Hush. Do not say that word, Catalina, even when we are alone. We must be watchful. I will speed on our departure. Once we have left this place we shall be safe.”

The days passed. We were waiting for a ship. When it came we would say good-bye to the Hacienda and Honey, Don Luis and little Edwina. I had prevailed upon Felipe to allow Carlos to come with us. Manuela would accompany us too, with Jennet and young Jacko.

I was desolate at the thought of leaving Honey; but I knew that from now on I was in jeopardy and the tension created by the realization that at any moment there might be that knock on the door was such that one must long to escape from it at all costs.

I heard that Pilar was sick and had taken to her bed. I sent Manuela over to see her. Manuela had been a good and faithful servant and grateful to me for rescuing Carlos whom she adored. I thought that she might discover how far Pilar had gone with her accusations.

When she came back I summoned her to my bedroom where we could talk without being overheard and asked her what she had found.

“Pilar is indeed sick,” she said. “She is sick of heart and sick of body.”

“Did she talk of Isabella?”

“All the time. The maids told me that she wanders about the Casa Azul at night calling for Isabella, that she will not allow them to touch the dolls. She has them there in her room.”

I nodded.

“Manuela, I wish to know all,” I said, “no matter what. I know that she hates me because I married Isabella’s husband. But Isabella was no wife to him. You know that.”

“Always she talks,” said Manuela. “She goes from one thing to another. She curses Edmundo. ‘All for a cross,’ she said, ‘a ruby-studded cross. You remember it, Manuela. She wore it so seldom.’”

“You did remember it, Manuela?”

“Yes, I did. It was a beautiful thing. I noticed it particularly, for I have a special liking for rubies. And it was not found either.”

“Edmundo gave it to someone, I believe that was the assumption. A woman he loved.”

“Who was this woman? They never found her.”

“You would not expect her to come forward. She would be afraid to. Or it may be that he hid the cross somewhere. Perhaps he buried it in the garden. He would have to hide it I suppose. But what does the cross matter?”

“Edmundo was such a gentle man. It seems strange that he should kill for a ruby cross.”

“One never knows what people will do. Perhaps he loved someone and wished her to have the cross. Who can say? And he did it on an impulse and then he was caught and his future threatened. They would hang him for stealing a valuable cross. So he killed to save himself.”

Manuela shook her head. “It was awful when she cursed him. I wanted to run out. But then she talked of you, Mistress.”

“What did she say of me, Manuela?”

“She said that she wished to see you. She said that she would have come to you but because she is ill you must go to her.”

“I will go,” I answered.

Manuela nodded.

I did not tell Felipe I was going. I thought he might prevent me. But I knew I had to speak to Pilar. I must try to explain. I wished I had done so during our encounter in the street, but I had been too taken aback to do so then. I wanted to ask her what she meant by calling me a witch. I wanted to assure her that I was no such thing.

It occurred to me that she knew something about the image. Had she put it there? How could she have done so? She did not come to the Hacienda. Perhaps she had people working for her there, people who hated me as much as she did, who wanted to prove that I was guilty in bringing about Isabella’s death.

I packed a basket with some delicacies from the kitchen and went to see her.

As I opened the gate a terrible revulsion came over me. It was as though my whole being were crying out a warning to me. There was the patio. There was the window and the balcony at which I had seen Isabella with her doll. Here Edmundo had picked her up so gently when she fell. In my mind’s eye I saw Edmundo’s lifeless body hanging from a rope in the plaza of La Laguna.

How quiet it was! I pushed open the door. I could scarcely bear to look. There was the staircase. I pictured her poor broken body lying at the bottom of it.

I stood hesitating.

Go away, said a voice within me. Run … while there is time. Leave this place. You are in imminent danger.

Someone was standing behind me. One of the servants must have seen me enter the house and followed me.

She looked at me, her eyes wide. I could see that she was afraid of me.

I said: “I came to see Pilar.”

She nodded and turned her eyes as though she feared she might be contaminated by some evil.

She started to run up the stairs. I followed her.

On a landing she opened a door. I went in.

The room was dark, for it had been built to keep out the sun. On the bed lay Pilar; her hair streaming about her shoulders gave her a wild look.

I took a step toward the bed and tried to speak normally.

“I’m sorry you are ill, Pilar. I have brought you these. I heard that you wanted to see me.”

“Do you think I’d eat anything that came from the Hacienda … that house of sin? Do you think I’d eat anything you brought me? You … witch! You have done this. You have cast your spells. You lusted for him and you bewitched him. And her death is at your door.”

“Listen to me, Pilar. I am no witch. I know nothing of witchcraft. I was not here when Doña Isabella died.”

Her laughter was horrible, cruel and sneering.

“You knew nothing! You know everything. You, and those like you, are wise in the ways of the Devil. You marked her down, my innocent child. Had she not suffered enough? Nay. You wanted him. You cast a spell. And she died … my poor innocent lamb … my poor sweet child.”

“I cast no spells…”

“Don’t tell me your lies. Save them for others … when the time comes. They’ll not believe you any more than I do.” She thrust her hand under the pillow and when she brought it out she was holding something. To my horror I saw that it was the figure of Isabella.

“Where did you get that? Who gave it to you?” I demanded.

“I have it. The evidence. This will prove to them. And you will die … die … even as she died … and more cruelly.”

“Where did you get that?” I repeated. “I saw it but once when I found it in my drawer. You put it there, Pilar.”

“I? I have not left this bed.”

“Then someone working for you…”

“Tell them that when you stand before the tribunal. Tell them that when you feel the flames licking your limbs.”

I could not bear to stay longer. I knew there was nothing I could say to her. I turned and ran out of the room, down the staircase and out into the fresh air. I did not stop running until I reached the Hacienda.

Felipe was horrified when he heard what had happened.

“If she has informed against you they will strike at any time. We must be ready as soon as the ship comes.”

And so the uneasy days passed. One cannot live at such high tension day after day. One grows accustomed even to that.

Felipe said: “I can’t understand it. If she had informed against you they would have come by now. It is because she is sick that she has taken no action. While she is confined to her room she cannot move against us. While she is ill we are safe. And the ship will be here any day.”

I visualized the life which awaited us in Spain.

We should live in Don Felipe’s country estate. He would be in attendance on the King at times and have to pay his visits to the gloomy Escorial and perhaps be sent off on missions to other lands, in which case we should accompany him.

It would be a life not dissimilar to that which I had led at the Hacienda. I should never grow accustomed to Spanish solemnity, for I could never become a part of it; nor did I believe that Felipe wished me to, for he had loved me as I was and perhaps because I was so different from the women of his land.

I must try to forget England. I was married to a Spaniard; my son was half Spanish.

If I could but hear that my mother was safe and well and that she knew that I was, I suppose I could in time become reconciled and I wondered often what had become of John Gregory.

Soon the ship must come and we would leave this house in which I had experienced so many emotions. I would try to start afresh when I left it—as I must.

I talked a great deal to Honey of the future. She had adjusted herself more easily than I. She was less tempestuous—or perhaps she was more successful in disguising her feelings. Just as she had appeared to be completely happy with Edward now she seemed so with Luis.

Her attitude was that we must accept life and do our best to be happy in it.

Our parting would be a bitter blow to us both, but we must accept it. We must think of our reunion which both Felipe and Luis had promised us should come in time.

My fears were almost lulled to rest when on that never-to-be-forgotten night there came the knocking on the door.

The candles had been lighted. We sat in that gracious room—myself and Felipe, Honey and Luis. Honey was playing the lute; and how beautiful she looked with her graceful head bent a little and her eyes downcast so that her thick lashes made a dark shadow against her skin—Honey of the indestructible beauty which no hardship could impair.

She was singing a Spanish song. We did not sing the English ones, only when we were out together in the open where none could hear.

Then we heard the sound from without.

We started up. Felipe came swiftly to my side. He put his arm around me. He wanted me to go up to our bedroom so that he could hide me there.

But already we could hear the voices and knocking on the door in the portico. Someone screamed and then there were the sounds of footsteps.

The door of the salon was flung open. I saw John Gregory and a great joy swept over me.

“He comes from England,” I cried.

And then I saw the man I had pictured so many times, his eyes flashing blue fire and there was mockery and murder in them. Jake Pennlyon had come to the Hacienda.

He was looking at me and he laughed triumphantly when he saw me. “I’ve come for you,” he cried. “Which is the fellow who took my woman?”

He was terrifying, magnificent and invincible. How many times, when I had first been brought to Tenerife, had I imagined his coming just like this.

He had turned to Felipe. Some instinct seemed to tell him that he was the one. Then I saw Felipe throw up his arms and fall to the floor.

“Oh, God,” I cried, for Jake’s sword was dripping with blood. I felt sick with horror. Jake had seized me.

“Did you doubt I’d come?” he cried. “God’s Death, it’s been a long time.”

How difficult it is to remember the details of that bewildering and horrifying night. My thoughts were dominated by one terrible truth. Felipe was dead and Jake had killed him.

When I shut my eyes I can see the salon—the bloodstained tapestry, the bodies of men, bloody and inert lying on the mosaic tiles. Honey’s husband was among them; he lay close to Felipe. I was aware of Jake’s men stripping the walls and I realized they were taking away all objects of value.

As I stood there staring down at the body of Felipe whom I knew now I had deeply loved, I thought of the children and ran out to the stairs which led to the nursery. Jake Pennlyon was beside me. It was so long since I had seen him, I had forgotten the power of the man.

He said: “Where go we then? To our bed? Why, girl, you’ll have to wait for that. We’ve work to do this night. We’ve got what we came for, but there’s no need to go back emptyhanded.”

“There are children,” I said.

“What?”

“My son.”

“Your son?”

“Yours too,” I answered.

I tried to escape from him, but he gripped me firmly. We went up to the stairs. The children were awake. Roberto ran to me and I caught him in my arms.

“Your son … this black brat,” cried Jake Pennlyon.

“It is all right, Roberto,” I soothed. “No harm shall come to you, my son.”

Jake Pennlyon’s blue eyes blazed with fury. “So you were got with child by a poxy Don. I’ll have no Spanish vermin on my ship.”

I held the child firmly in my arms.

Carlos and Jacko had come up. Carlos stared at Jake Pennlyon with frank curiosity.

“And these?”

“Yours,” I said. “Your sons, Jake Pennlyon—one got on a Spanish lady and the other on a serving wench.”

He stared down at the boys. Then he put out a hand and let it rest on the shoulder of Carlos. “God’s Death!” he said. Then he took Carlos’ chin and jerked his face up. Then he did the same to Jacko. They met his gaze fearlessly. Jake Pennlyon burst into great laughter. Carlos, uncertain, laughed too. Jake took a handful of Carlos’s hair and pulled it. There was a certain emotion in his face.

He released Carlos and slapped him on the back. The boy staggered but was looking eager and expectant still. Jacko had stepped a little forward, not wishing to be left out.

“Why,” said Jake, “I’d have known you two anywhere.”

Then he looked at me, his eyes narrowed. “These boys should have been yours and you got with child by a poxy Don!” He looked down at the boys. “Get warm clothes on,” he roared. “Bring what you can—everything you can lay your hands on. You’re going on the finest ship that ever sailed the seas.”

Honey, weeping quietly, had come in for Edwina. She picked her up and held her in her arms.

“Make ready,” growled Jake Pennlyon, “and follow me.”

We went down the stairs; packhorses were waiting for us. They had been taken from Felipe’s stables. Already articles of value were being loaded onto them. It must have been midnight when we started to ride to the coast.

There was a faint moon to show us the way and the going was slow.

Jake Pennlyon rode beside me and I held Roberto on my mule. Jennet was there, her eyes wide with excitement; Manuela kept close to the children, quietly determined to follow them; Honey, widowed twice and in a like manner, her beautiful face now impassive, held Edwina on her mule. Jacko rode with Jennet and Carlos had a mule to himself.

I felt as though I were living in a nightmare. I could not forget Felipe lying in his blood, he who, a short while before, had been alive and so concerned for my safety, and all that had happened in the last hour seemed quite unreal. I was certain I would wake up soon.

There was Jake Pennlyon—I had forgotten how vital a man could be—the murderer of Felipe, whom I had grown to love.

I should never forget Felipe’s gentle courtesy, his deep and abiding kindness to me. And Jake Pennlyon had killed him. How I hated Jake Pennlyon.

And so we came to the coast and there, a mile or so from the land, lay the Rampant Lion.

We rowed out to her; we scrambled aboard.

The spoils which Jake Pennlyon’s men had taken from the Hacienda were stowed away.

It was beginning to be light when the Rampant Lion shipped anchor and we sailed for England.