Conspiracy by Starlight
 

When he finally reached the spot upstream where the small creek fed into the river, he let Tornado stop to drink as he surveyed the hacienda.  Everything seemed still. Bernardo was probably curled up asleep on a cot near the horse’s stall.  Perhaps Zorro wouldn’t even have to wake him.  He urged the stallion across the stream and up the path that followed the curve of the thick riparian undergrowth.  Tornado, knowing he would soon be finished with his night’s work, tossed his head, reluctant to let himself be held to a walk.

Patting the hard muscular neck, Zorro thought that surely this horse must have legs of iron, as often as he was called upon to spring into action at a moment’s notice, or wait, sweaty and uncared for, while his master was occupied with other things.  But tonight, at least, he wouldn’t be put away until after he had cooled down from his exertions.

Lost in such thoughts, not really paying much attention to all the prancing beneath him, the outlaw suddenly felt both mildly startled and chagrined when he noticed that, once again, Tornado’s ears were pricked straight forward, the tips nearly touching.  Then just ahead of him, not quite on the path but at the edge of the tree line, he saw something that could easily have been taken for a ghost.

He squinted hard—no use even trying to listen; the crickets and the frogs and the running water were drowning out even Tornado’s hoof beats, or else whatever it was would surely have heard him long before he had seen it.  Still, though his eyes were well adjusted to the darkness by now, all he could catch from this far away was a slowly moving gossamer shape, lighter in color than the trees behind it, about the size of a person.

He felt Tornado’s skittishness trickle up his spine, and he took a slow deep breath, knowing he would have to get a lot closer.  Then, leaning slightly forward in the saddle, he gave the animal some rein, taking him just off the path to silence the clatter of his hooves, knowing that at least they were both better camouflaged than whatever they were pursuing.  When they finally got within twenty paces of it, he wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or annoyed when he realized who it was.  But the long golden hair that now fell loosely past her waist was unmistakable.

Oreana.

He didn’t know if he had actually said her name aloud or not, but he had to remind himself that Zorro wouldn’t know it.  What in the devil was she doing out here?  And how had she even managed to get out here, alone at this hour, as well supervised as she was?  He had only an instant to think about these things, though, before he realized she had noticed him and had ducked into the undergrowth.  This, he mused, was going to be interesting.

Quickly, he dismounted and unbuckled his sword, leaving both it and his cape slung on the saddle horn.  Then he slipped into the bushes just a few paces behind where he had seen her disappear.  Would she freeze or flush?  He himself would have immediately tried to outflank a pursuer, but she was probably terrified and would head upstream as fast as possible, maybe even trying to cross.

He hoped she knew this stream was still hip deep in places—and that she might run into poison oak, or have that flimsy frock ripped to shreds on the thorns of wild rose bushes.  He thought of calling to her, but what could he say, after all, to convince her that, although she was being chased up a creek bank in the middle of the night by a masked outlaw, she was in no danger?  Nor did he feel right about simply letting her go, even if he had been able to stifle his curiosity any longer.  Out here, she could easily run into creatures far more dangerous than foxes.

Moving carefully, deliberately, he ducked through the willow branches, thinking that sooner or later she would trip or get caught on something, or at least move far enough out of the shadows that he could catch a glimpse of the ghostly white fabric.  But when he paused, he didn’t see or hear any sign of her.  All he knew for sure was that she was watching him, intently, and that, judging from the little hole in the otherwise solid wall of cricket sounds, she had somehow slipped behind him after all.

He turned just in time to grab her right forearm and drag her out from behind a nearby cottonwood.  In her hand, she carried what looked like a small sharp knife of the sort that women often used to prepare food.  He tightened his grip until she dropped it, then drew her toward him until he could see how wide her eyes had become.

"Señor Zorro . . . ."

He couldn’t have relaxed his grip for more than an instant before she twisted her forearm in a quick, almost casual gesture and broke free.  Her strength surprised him.  But she didn’t try to pick up the knife, so he decided he had used about as much force as this situation demanded.  Instead he simply grinned, stepped back far enough to put her just out of his reach, bowed politely and said, in his most charming tone, "At your service, Señora.  Or—is it Señorita?"

She nodded weakly, then felt behind her for the tree trunk, sank back against it and drew a deep shaky breath.  But she never took her eyes off his face for an instant.  "The soldiers," she said finally.  "They came here tonight.  They were looking for you, and for another man.  They said you helped him break out of the cárcel."

"Hmm . . . ."  He tilted his head to one side and nodded thoughtfully.  "Yes, their efforts have not been entirely successful.  My apologies."  She smiled, then, and brushed a long golden strand of hair back from her face in a gesture just shy enough to make him realize he must be staring at her again. But he didn’t care.  If he had thought the meek domesticated fiancée of Don Urbino was beautiful, that version of her now seemed plain next to this one—like a tame, well groomed carriage horse beside Tornado.  "I do not mean you any harm," he went on.  "Nor did I intend to frighten you, but these hills might still be full of soldiers and perhaps even a few other companions less charming than they, Señorita . . . ?"

Now her smile blossomed into an actual grin.  "Venancio."

He stepped forward, bent down to pick up the small knife, handed it to her and motioned toward an opening in the thicket that would put them back on the path again.  "Señorita Venancio."

"Oreana," she replied, easing past him and out into the starlight again.

"Named for the sunrise.  Quite fitting."

"For my grandmother, actually," she said, "they say I look like her."

"I find that hard to believe."

"Oh?  Why do you say this?"

Zorro’s smile turned slightly roguish as he reflected that outlaws were usually expected to be a little bolder than scholars.  "Well," he said, "it’s just that one assumes a beauty so rare would be difficult to replicate."  And he was gratified to see that this time she did look down and perhaps even blush a little.  "You are a guest of this hacienda, then?"

"The de la Vegas are most hospitable and charming."

"But not charming enough to keep you under their roof at night."

"I had other . . . concerns."

"Well, I wouldn’t wish to pry, but—"

"The man you saved from the carcel; he was accused of kidnaping?"

Zorro’s smile faded a bit.  "Yes," he said.

"By a man named Marigál."

"Yes.  How did you know this?"

"I believe Marigál is the kidnaper," she said, her tone suddenly grave.  "I think he is the head of a kidnaping and extortion conspiracy.  I also think they mean to abduct young de la Vega."

Zorro studied her face carefully.  This was not at all the direction he had expected this conversation to take.  But he wasn’t quite ready, yet, to tell her how or why he had reached the same conclusion.  "Do you have any evidence of this?" he said instead.

"My family and I are his victims."

Zorro looked down the hill toward the stables, his eyes narrowing as he tried to piece together the two halves of his perception of this situation.  She had seemed nervous, perhaps even frightened.  But a captive?  "Do you mean to say that you are being held here against your will?"

She shook her head.  "Not exactly."  Then, as though she had read his expression through the mask, she went on.  "You see, they kidnaped my brother Arturo.  We have no idea where they are holding him, but I thought if I could follow them I could find out."

"So you are here following Marigál?"

"No," she said.  "I have never seen Señor Marigál.  He does not usually come into direct contact with his victims.  He stays behind the scenes, arranging everything, gaining the confidence of the local authorities, but he leaves the rest to his associates. They win people’s trust, learn as much as possible about them and how they live.  Then once Marigál strikes, they pressure them to cooperate, telling them all will be well if they just do as they are told."

"So you follow one of Marigál’s associates?"  Zorro suspected he already knew the answer.

She nodded.  "A man named Don Urbino Guzman.  Though I am not exactly following him so much as traveling with him.  I told him . . . ."  She looked down at her hands, folding one tightly over another, then brought them both up to her lips.  Finally she said, "I told him I would marry him if he helped me to free my brother.  He has said he would try, but I do not think he means to keep his word.  And I don’t think he really trusts me.  He has me watched day and night."

"And your parents?  They consented to such an . . . arrangement?"

"They felt we had little choice.  We would lose everything unless—"  Her voice drifted away, and she pressed her lips tightly together as if to avoid saying the rest.

Zorro took in a deep, thoughtful breath.  By now they had walked slowly back along the path to where Tornado stood idly grazing.  He raised his head and nickered softly as they came up to him, then nosed Zorro’s chest.  When she noticed him, Oreana brightened at once.

"He is magnificent," she said.  Knowing better than to reach for him, she bent down, moving casually but carefully.  Soon the stallion reached for her instead, letting her bring her face up to his velvety muzzle while his nostrils flared, taking in her scent. In another moment she had slipped a hand beneath his mane and begun scratching gently behind his ear.

"You are good with spirited animals," said Zorro, smiling.

"Sí," she nodded, "I am."  Then turning to the horse, she murmured softly, "Sí, Señor Hermoso, estos cuidados se gustan, no?  Ah, sí, jovenaso . . . ."  Tornado, for his part, looked quite content.

"He would stand there all night and let you do that," Zorro chuckled, and he was tempted to add that he would have, too, but he didn’t—nor did he have to.  The girl looked up at him almost as if she had heard the remark and let her eyes linger over his face, as if she were trying to read, not just what was behind the mask, but what was behind the smile as well.  Finally, looking away, she let her hand fall from Tornado’s neck.  But as she started to turn, the horse abruptly brought his head around and shoved her, hard, right into Zorro’s arms.

Stepping back, he caught her shoulders to steady her, and she caught herself by grabbing him.  But as her fingers slid down the curve of his right arm and over the bandage, he couldn’t help but wince, just a little.  Immediately she let go of him.

"Oh, you’re hurt—"

He shook his head, his hands still resting lightly on her shoulders until he was sure she had regained her footing.  "It’s nothing," he said.  Then, with a sudden grin, he added, "You should have seen my opponent."

He may as well have poked her in the ribs.  Her whole body jerked and, as she brought her knuckles to her lips, it was apparently all she could do to keep from laughing out loud. Watching her, he himself had to laugh.  Finally, she pursed her lips and said, "Sword?"

Shaking his head more at her than at the question, he said, "Yes."

"There is a poultice, you know, that will keep it from leaving a scar."

"Perhaps you can show me," he said.  "But first we must get you out of here so that you can talk to the authorities.  The man I released from jail will corroborate what you have said."

Her smile faded almost instantly.  "I cannot go.  The moment they discover I am gone they will kill my brother.  And I must try to warn Diego de la Vega, though I fear he may not believe such a crazy story."

"I think he will believe me," said Zorro, though he did have to wonder what he would have thought if he hadn’t already heard more or less the same account from Don Guillermo.

"But if I disappear," she protested, "they could kill Diego anyway, just in case I might have told him anything.  Don’t you see?  These men are ruthless.  Urbino could just accuse him of having paid too much attention to me.  And Señor Marigál has already co-opted the local authorities, no?"

"Yes."

"And implicated you."

He shrugged.  "I seem always to be implicated in something."

"So you see—there is no better way to expose them, or to learn where my brother is or to warn the de la Vegas than for me to stay with Urbino."

Zorro rested a hand on Tornado’s saddle, shook his head and scrutinized the contours of the pale white chemise she wore, the way the pink silk ribbon laced through its neckline, the way her waist narrowed beneath the bodice, the way the smooth silk fell softly from her hips and clung to her thighs.  No, she wasn’t dressed like someone who had been planning to make a run for it.  In fact, she almost didn’t seem to realize how undressed she was, like a child who hadn’t yet learned why a woman should be more modest.

"Señorita," he said, "what are you doing out here?"

"Waiting for you."  Her eyes met his.  Still, for a moment he wasn’t sure just how seriously to take that remark.

"How did you know you would find me here?"

She shrugged.  "The soldiers thought they would.  Apparently, their timing was just a little off.  Besides," she added, brushing her hair back from her face again and sweeping it over her shoulders, "I just had to get out of there, if only for a while, to have some time to myself, without anybody watching me or telling me what to do.  Do you know what it is like to lose yourself in a part you are playing?  To wonder who you really are, apart from what other people expect of you?"  Then her eyes softened and a note of real tenderness crept into her voice. "Oh, listen to me.  What a silly thing to ask.  You probably know better than I. . . ."

Then she caught herself again and looked away, clearly thinking she had said too much.  And maybe she had seen a little deeper into him than even he usually cared to look, though somehow he felt not the least bit uncomfortable.  He nodded more to ignore than to acknowledge the observation.  "What did you need from me?"

"I had hoped you would help me protect the de la Vegas," she replied.  "I think Diego will be safe for the moment, as long as he does not leave this hacienda or travel very far alone.  But these men—they will not give up easily, not with so much at stake.  If they do succeed, please promise me, Señor Zorro, that you will try to rescue him."

Zorro nodded.  "This I can promise," he said.  "But from what I have heard, Señorita, there may be other captives.  I must try to find them as well.  You say these men will kill your brother, but they can do nothing unless they are somehow able to send word to those who hold him.  If you leave here with me, tonight, maybe they will send out a messenger I can follow.  I can take you to the mission.  You will be safe there, and then—"

"No, no church.  If Señor Marigál has the right kind of papers, he could just come into a parish, or even a mission, and take it over."

"The right kind of papers?  How could one man take over the San Gabriel mission?"

"If he had the documents that would identify him as a representative of the Inquisition," she said, glancing sideways, as if she were afraid of being overheard.  "I have heard that he sometimes poses as a priest."

"But how?  Where would one obtain such documents?"

"I do not know.  Perhaps in Mexico City there are men who could forge them."

"Perhaps.  But the padres here might want more proof."

"I think it is best that I stay out of churches," she said.  "Better to avoid trouble.  My brother could die even if Marigál were exposed as a fraud.  Besides, I cannot leave without at least trying to warn Diego."

Zorro found it more than a little odd to be listening to a beautiful woman express such concern for Diego de la Vega.  More often, for him, these roles were reversed.  He studied the dark eyes that searched his own, the forehead wrinkling just slightly above the delicately arched brows, the soft lips parted against white even teeth.  Finally, he nodded.  "Very well; I am hardly in any position to insist that you leave, though I will not be far away should you change your mind."

"Gracias," she said.  "I will take comfort in knowing your invitation stands open, but I suppose I must go back inside now, before I’m missed."

"How did you get out here in the first place?"

She pointed back to the stables in the distance—"There"—indicating a spot near the high outer wall where an ancient sycamore draped its gracefully twisted branches near the edge of a tile roof.

He looked from her to the tree and back again.  Yes, she could have escaped that way, by climbing out onto a branch and jumping down.  But climbing back up the tree and onto the roof would be an entirely different matter, as he knew all too well—though, of course, he had never had the benefit of trying to do it in a silk chemise.  "Just exactly how were you planning to get back inside?" he asked, noting, not just that her smile had returned but that her eyes were sparkling with a hint of conspiratorial glee.

"Perhaps you could be of some assistance?" she said.  "I understand you have an affinity for this sort of thing." The thought of sending her back inside under these circumstances kept his own grin modest as he nodded and offered to help her up onto Tornado’s saddle.  But then she hesitated, turned, ran back up the path a little ways, and finally stooped down to retrieve a heavy piece of black Spanish lace.  "I forgot my shawl," she explained as he caught up with her again.

"May I?"  He offered to wrap her in it.

"Oh, I am quite warm enough," she smiled, tying the fabric loosely around her waist instead, in a sling, the way an Indian woman might carry a parcel.  Then, seeing the question in his eyes, she said, "Flowers.  This is what the knife was for.  They’re very beautiful."

"How will you explain where they came from?" he asked as he boosted her lightly up into the saddle, then swung up behind her.

"I will think of something," she said.  "Usually, one is not called upon to explain how flowers appear in the spring."

Probably not, he thought, wrapping an arm around her to steady her as Tornado surged into a ground-eating canter.  One might say she was literally courting the danger she was in.  But who was he, after all, to criticize?  Reining in under the tree, he edged Tornado closer to the wall.  Then he reached down to untie the long black rawhide bullwhip fastened to his saddle and, with a delicate flick of his wrist, wrapped its tip firmly around a low thick branch.  Yanking it to make sure it would hold, and that the branch would bend far enough, he steadied himself with it as he sprang to his feet, planting one foot on either side of the horse’s loins, just behind the cantle.

Oreana saw at once what he had planned.  Quickly, she took off her slippers and shoved them into the folds of her shawl.  Then she also leaped to a standing position on the saddle seat, as though she had been doing this all her life, and, as he lifted her by the waist, used the whip to pull herself up while he shoved her—knees, thighs and ankles—onto the branch.  Then, as their combined weight brought it down, she crept up onto the top of the wall and sat down to put her shoes back on.

As she looked down at him, her face shining with delight, her hair flowing free around her shoulders, she seemed like some wild little angel who had somehow been abandoned on Earth and raised by savages, or perhaps a fairy changeling, whose image, like that of the serene pieta, would haunt him the rest of his life.

Like the flowers, what he felt looking up at her didn’t seem to need much explanation, though he knew it would be better if those feelings, too, went unnoticed.