A Match Made in Hell

Left alone, Diego had quietly snuck out of the room where the alcalde’s servant had left him and had prowled through most of the house’s second story, moving silently along the darkened balcony, pausing to check each room.  Then he had gone down one of the stairways to search the private rooms and corridors below.  He had even stopped by the kitchen and explored the passage that led to the stables, but Marigál was nowhere to be found.

At last, emerging from the shadows of the library, he saw his father standing with the alcalde, and he thought he may as well join them, since by now they wouldn’t think his recovery had been too quick.  He also wanted to reassure Oreana and to ask her a little more about their adversary, for in spite of what she had said about it being easier to kill with a blade than with magic, he was starting to see that it might just take a bit of sorcery to bring this man into proximity with the blade.

"Ah, Diego," said his father, taking him by the arm, "are you feeling better, my son?  You do look a little better.  Would you try some of this delightful amontillado?"

"It really is quite excellent," the alcalde added.  "It can bring bit of color back to the cheek."

Diego shook his head.  "Gracias, no.  Perhaps later.  But for now I think I had better not go tempting my fate."

"Perhaps you should eat something," Alejandro said, scrutinizing him from head to foot.  "I do not believe you have eaten a thing since we arrived."

"Perhaps."  Diego glanced around him.  "But–uh, where is Oreana?"

"Oh"—his father raised his brows, then squinted, sorting through the profusion of faces on the dance floor.  "Well," he said, "she was there just a moment ago, dancing with that young friend of yours from—Boston, did you say?"

"New York, I believe," said the alcalde.  "Sí," he added, turning to Diego, "quite a charming young fellow.  I did not know he was a friend of yours, but I am not surprised.  He and his associate Señor Marigál have both been very generous in their support of our community.  He said you had promised to introduce him to the young lady—it seems they might be distant cousins—but he said he had to leave early.

"You know," the alcalde added, lowering his voice, "I think he may have a rendezvous.  Diego . . ."  He carefully fingered his beard.  "One has no desire to pry, of course, but is it possible that he may have developed an interest in one of the local señoritas?  If so, he has been most discreet about it.  But perhaps he has confided in you?"

"No, but maybe I should speak to him.  Did you see where he went?"

"They were right over there just a moment ago," said the alcalde, nodding diagonally across the courtyard.  "By the stairwell."

"Well, then, I think I will try to catch up with him before he leaves, eh?  Con permisso, Don Francisco.  Father."

Without waiting for their response, Diego cut straight across the dance floor, trying not to look too purposeful in his stride, or to let show any of the feelings that were boiling up inside him.  He only hoped no one got in his way.

That he was completely unarmed did not trouble him in the least.  By the time he reached the stairwell, he felt more than ready to tear Endicott apart with his bare hands.  But he knew it wasn’t just Endicott or Marigál he was furious with, or the alcalde, or his father, or the girl.  Taking a few deep breaths, he turned around to study the silhouettes of the people standing beneath the portico to his right, then moved left until he reached the corner of the courtyard.  But he saw no one down either portico that looked even remotely like Endicott or the girl.  Then, something told him to return to the stairwell.

The passageway to the right of the stairs led out into the stables behind the house.  The short hall to the left of the stairs led to a door just opposite the crawlspace, into what he supposed were servant’s quarters.  For a moment, he stood there, thinking that what he really should do now was go back to his father, take him outside and tell him the truth—all of it.  Then at least if he disappeared, his father would not believe the lie he knew Marigál was planning to tell him.

Still, as he saw where he was, he also realized that anyone who wanted to sneak out of here with a prisoner would probably have to use this exit to the stables.  Maybe it would be worth it to wait here for just a little while.  Quietly he retreated into the darkness of the hallway until he reached the crawlspace.

Somehow, he already knew Oreana had been here.  He felt her terror hanging heavily in the air.  Then he felt something crunch under the heel of his boot.  When he bent down to pick it up, it felt like a twisted piece of jewelry, so he stepped out into the light of the lanterns again to have a better look at it.  Sure enough, it was one of her earrings.  Then, as he stuck it into his pocket, he heard a voice that was at first hard to place but disquietingly familiar.

"Patrón.  You look for la Reina, no?"

"Silvio."

"Sí, Patrón."  Silvio’s clear green eyes widened a bit, and he stepped back as he saw the look on Diego’s face.  But then he added bravely, "I can show you."

Forcing himself to unclench his fists, Diego nodded.  But still not wanting to get too close to him, Silvio simply pointed back down the darkened hallway.  Diego studied the man.  Then, he walked down the hallway and stood before the door.  "You open it," he said quietly.  Silvio looked as though he might bolt at any moment, but Diego folded his arms and leaned against the wall, trying to look as indifferent as he could under the circumstances.  "Come now," he said.  "We both know they want me more than her.  Open it.  Open it, or I walk away."

Swallowing hard, Silvio came up to the door, knocked, then gently turned the knob as he felt Diego’s fingers knotting in the collar of his jacket.  As the door creaked open, Diego saw that the room beyond was dimly lit.  Then he heard another hauntingly familiar voice ask him to come inside.  Please.

Shoving the servant ahead of him, he stepped forward.  The first thing he noticed as his view of the room widened was Oreana sitting bound to a straight back chair, a gag tied tightly over her mouth, even though she seemed unconscious, her head slumped to one side.  She wore nothing now but a plain cotton blouse and skirt.  Even her feet were bare.

"Release her," he said, wrapping his forearm deliberately under Silvio’s chin.

"Or what?" said Marigál, smiling with faint amusement as he appeared behind the chair and gently brushed the hair back from her cheek as if she were a sleeping child.  "You will kill Silvio there?  Well, then, if you must.  Go ahead.  Silvio knows his soul will be saved.  But how about hers?"  Light glinted off the blade of a small dagger that rested gently against the bare white skin of her throat.  "Or yours?  Believe me, joven," Marigál added, "the penance for consorting with witches will be severe.  But I do believe there is still hope for your salvation—if you confess now and repent.  And do not think that I will hesitate to send this whore straight to hell rather than allow you to continue on your own way there."

The blade in his hand was sharp enough that it had already left a small red scratch just under the jaw line, below her ear.  "Release her," said Diego, letting go of Silvio.  "Release her, and I will cooperate."

"You will cooperate whether I release her or not," said Marigál with a slight nod of his head.  Diego never really felt the blow that buckled his knees.  His face was already numb by the time it hit the hard floor, and the sharp, musty smell of expensive Persian carpet drown out almost all other perceptions as the whole room spun around in a black, wooly void.

Dimly, he heard Marigál asking Endicott if the girl was dressed yet.  Endicott’s reply was garbled.  Then Marigál added, "Well, get him out of those clothes and get yourself into them.  By the time el Zorro figures out he has followed the wrong coach, I will have Don Alejandro convinced that these two lovers have eloped rather than face Don Urbino.  Clearly he still thinks the man is alive.  And if el Zorro should try to stop the coach, please—do not cross swords with him.  Just shoot him."

"Bernardo. . . ."

As he felt someone tying a gag over his mouth, Diego tried to struggle.

"Will you please get that over with," said Marigál.

Then there was silence.

A soft spring breeze gently rustled the leaves of a nearby sycamore tree, wafting the sweet sounds of music out from the central courtyard to the nearby stables where dozens of buggies and carriages waited, horses standing peacefully in harness, drivers dozing.  Some men sat in a stall playing cards by the dim light of a lantern.  A few had crept off to visit the tavern.  Bernardo could easily identify the dark outlines of the de la Vega coach, its driver leaning casually against a rear wheel, talking with one of the alcalde’s stable hands.

Nearby stood a heavy wagon loaded with several large wooden crates that had probably once held shipments of furniture.  A few smaller crates sat piled near an open storage shed and a cart filled with hay.

From his vantage point, a dark cranny where the red tile roof of the house met the thatched roofs of the stables, he could see almost everything except the actual doorway that led into the rear of the house.  Tornado waited in the heavy shadows below him, just outside the stable walls.  So far, Bernardo had not seen anything the least bit unusual, though he knew he still had a little longer to wait.  But with the moon shining so brightly now, he was starting to think Diego was right—that it would be foolish for Marigál to try abducting anyone from such a public gathering.

As the moon rose higher in the evening sky, Bernardo found himself trying to stay awake.  He stood up slowly and pressed against the cool outer wall of the house, wishing something would happen.  Soon, he reasoned, he should either see something suspicious, or someone would call for the de la Vega carriage to be brought around.

The one thing he wasn’t expecting to see was Oreana and Diego weaving quietly between the coaches and the buggies, until they reached a small coach that stood just inside the outer gates.  A man not quite Diego’s height with dark curly hair and had come with them.  Now he opened the coach’s door, helped them in, then climbed into the driver’s seat and took up the reins.  He wasn’t one of the de la Vega stable hands, though he did look vaguely familiar somehow.  As he turned the pair of horses toward the gates, he called down to the stableman to open them, then pulled the coach out onto the street.

Bernardo knew he was going to have to follow it, and he was quite certain Diego knew he would.  Still it was odd that Diego hadn’t even looked up from under the brim of his hat or tried to signal him somehow.  Perhaps he didn’t want any of the other guests to see him and Oreana leaving together, unaccompanied.  That might also explain why she had covered her hair with a dark lacy shawl.

But few young men had either the wealth or the inclination to indulge in the kind of clothing Diego wore.  No one would fail to recognize him in that suit, and the same could be said of Oreana, at least on this occasion.  So what else could it be?

As he slid down outside the stable walls on the rope he had left tied to an exposed beam, Bernardo wondered if Diego hadn’t wanted to risk letting the driver see him give a signal.  Might it be that this driver was somehow forcing them to leave?  That didn’t seem likely, he thought as he swung up on Tornado.  If the driver had been holding a pistol on them, he had concealed it well.  Besides, Diego could have easily overpowered that man, pistol or no pistol, unless he was just letting himself be captured.  And perhaps he was.  Perhaps for some reason, he had decided it was better to let Marigál think his trap had worked.  In any case, Bernardo knew he had a long night’s ride ahead of him now.

Coming down the street behind the stables and turning toward the plaza, he easily picked up the trail of the coach as it headed due east on the road out of town, toward el Camino Real.  Sooner or later, Bernardo figured, he would try to let its occupants catch a glimpse of him, just so Diego would know he was out here.  But for now, he would hang back and bide his time.  At least he knew where they were going.

"Marbella, que haciste?  Why do you not go to bed, mija?  It is getting late, probably past midnight.  I will wait up for them.  It should not be much longer now."  Crescencia, the de la Vega housekeeper, folded her arms and studied the tired girl who sat on the raised open hearth in the sala hugging her knees, idly poking the fire.  She seemed like a fretful child, almost too tired to sleep.

"Oh, Señora," she said, "I do not mind keeping you company.  It is not right that you should have to stay up like this all alone.  Please tell me more about the old days, when you first began to work for the de la Vegas.  Tell me about the Señora de la Vega.  What was she like?"

Crescencia shook her head.  "Quite beautiful," she said.

"Like the Señorita Venancio."

"Sí, and very smart.  She knew how to run a household, and her skills with needlework and cooking—well, they were impeccable.  Quit poking that fire, niña, or we will have to add another log to it before morning.  Here."  She picked up a nearby lap robe and gave it to the girl.  Marbella nodded shyly.  One might almost think she was ill, thought Crescencia.  "Shall I get you some tea?" she said, feeling the girl’s forehead.

"Gracias, no, Señora."  Marbella drew the robe a little closer around her shoulders, but she knew it couldn’t really ward off the chill she was feeling.  "Señora . . . do you ever, well, see things when you look into a flame?"

"See things?"

"I mean, like pictures."  Marbella squinted, trying to think of the best way to explain it.  "One sees them more with the mind than with the eyes," she said.

"Oh, well, of course."  Crescencia nodded.  "I suppose we all imagine things."

"Sí, but . . . do you ever see things that are—real?"

"Real?"

"Sí."

Crescencia shook her head.  "No, I do not think so," she said, eyes narrowing.  "Pero por que preguntas?  What have you seen?"

Marbella shrugged, trying to keep the shrug from becoming a shudder.  "Oh, nothing, I—I just wondered," she said.

"Is that what this is all about?"  Crescencia knelt down beside the girl, peering into her face.  "Child, tell me.  What have you been imagining?  What is troubling you?"

"Oh, Señora . . . ." Marbella looked up, trembling.  When Crescencia caught her hands, she let herself be drawn into an uneasy embrace.  "I am afraid someone is going to die tonight," she said softly.

Crescencia stiffened, then let the girl go, crossing herself.  "Mija," she said, "do not say such things.  Even in jest."  Then she gathered the girl into an embrace again.  "You are simply tired," she went on.  "And you are worried.  Everything is all right."

"Sí, Señora."  Marbella said the words without much conviction as Crescencia patted her shoulder.

"You’ll see," said the older woman.  "They will come soon."

Marbella nodded, vowing to say no more, and tried not to stare at the blood red embers in the fireplace, for when she did, they seemed to become the smiling faces of demons.  And she didn’t know which frightened her more—them, or the immense darkness that waited just beyond the glow of the candles on the table.  "Sí, Señora," she said, poking the fire again.

Crescencia smiled, then took another small piece of wood from the nearby bin and placed it gently over the coals.  Then she leaned against the table.  "The Señora de la Vega used to play that piano very well," she said.  "It was hers.  They brought it all the way from Boston for her, even before Don Diego was born."  Then she sighed and lightly stroked the girl’s long dark hair, drawing her own shawl tighter around her shoulders.

So many memories haunted this room.  It had only existed for five years when she and her mistress, the newly wed Señora de la Vega, had first seen it.  At that time, Crescencia hadn’t been much older than Marbella, and the Señora de la Vega herself had been but eighteen—both young, both with so many dreams, despite the hardships that had already toughened them both beyond their years.

"What was it like back then, Señora?"

"Oh, very primitive," the housekeeper went on.  "At first we were frightened to live out here."

"Because of Indians."  Marbella nodded, feeling a bit self-conscious; she had heard this story before.  "They killed your parents, no?"

"Sí.  This is how I had come to be in the service of Señora de la Vega.  Her family took me in when I was but a girl.  We were not campesinas, you know—she and I—we were both from the city of Culiacán.  Don Alejandro, well, he grew up in what is now the town of Navolato, at least until his father brought them here, and here was no more civilized than there.  But he was very handsome.  And his manners and speech were impeccable.  A true caballero.  Like his father."

"And you remember when Don Diego was born."

"Oh, sí, who could forget?  Everyone was so happy.  Don Alejandro was so proud.  You should have seen him, smiling all the time; why, one couldn’t make him angry if one tried."  As the memories gathered around her, Crescencia smiled too and shook her head.  Then the smile faded.

"And you also had sons of your own, no?" said Marbella, pursing her lips thoughtfully as she let her chin come to rest on one wrist, then tilted her face sideways to look at the older woman.

"Three."  Crescencia nodded.  "One is in Culiacán; two in Monterey."

Marbella’s frown deepened.  "Then why did you stay here to work for the de la Vegas after your husband died?"

In the soft candlelight, Crescencia’s eyes widened just a little.  Then she glanced down and rearranged the front of her shawl.  Finally, she let her gaze drift out into the darkened courtyard where a gentle breeze stirred the leaves of the old tree.  "De las aguas manses, Dios,"(1) she said with a sigh.  "Who else would take care of this house the way she would have wanted?  Who else would look after them?"

As the older woman walked over to the window and began to straighten a stack of books lying on a nearby chest of drawers, Marbella suddenly understood that once, long ago, Crescencia had been precisely her age.  And she wondered what it must be like to be almost fifty, and to have been so long in love with someone who didn’t—who couldn’t—know.

"They will be back soon," she said.  "I am certain they will."