A Military Escort

His head throbbed, and for a time the pain was all he really knew.  Then, gradually, he began to realize that wheels were turning somewhere beneath him and that his face was resting against hard wooden planks.  His shoulders felt stiff, and when he tried to move, rough iron scraped against his bare ankles and wrists.  His eyes opened onto nothing but blurred and fleeting images.  He felt feverish, thirsty, yet nauseous.  Then he heard a voice, perhaps female, calling to him, but the pain flooded over him again like an immense ocean whose oppressive weight crushed his awareness of anything else.  When it finally ebbed, he knew that the motion had stopped, and he heard the harsh voices of men.

"Our orders are to keep them alive," said one.  "If they suffocate inside that crate, it will not go well for us."

"It will not go well for us if they escape."

"Where are they to go?  Do you think they will vanish into thin air?

"They are sorcerers, are they not?"

"Just ignore anything they say," said the first.  "And do not look them directly in the eye.  They are secured in the strongest chains."

"Then why don’t you let them out?"

"We will all let them out," said the first man.  "Hand me that pry bar."

The dry wooden planks creaked as they yielded up rows of rusty iron nails, leaving a small square of twilight.  Diego didn’t try to move, not actually knowing at this point if he could.  "Please come out of there slowly," said the first man.  "And do not think we will hesitate to shoot."

"That will not be necessary, Corporal," said a soft female voice.  "However, you will have to let me unlock this padlock, since these irons are bolted to the walls in here."

After a moment, the man said, "I will do it."  Diego felt someone leaning over him; then he heard the tumblers fall and felt the heavy weight of the chains curling beside him like a snake.

"Gracias," came the meek reply.  He could tell she was trying not to frighten these men—or to provoke them by letting them see that she knew how frightened they already were.  "Now perhaps you could help me to get him out," she said.  "He cannot move.  He is badly injured."

"You stand over there," said the corporal.  "Muñoz, give me a hand."  Diego felt their hands lifting, then dragging him.  His whole body ached with the stiffness of lying in one place for so long.  Then he felt the fresh air and the cool earth, but they seemed only to sharpen the pain that came surging over him again.

"I said stay there," the corporal ordered; "Here, give me that."  A gust of water struck Diego’s face, but he barely felt it.  Only after a moment, once it soaked into his clothing, did he feel his body wanting to shiver.  But something told him to fight the impulse, if he could.

"Is he dead?" said Muñoz.

"Aí, que la chin— " another man swore.

"Cállate!" the corporal hissed, then knelt down to rest his ear against the prisoner’s chest.

"He is alive," said the woman gently.  "But he may not live much longer unless you allow me to help him."  The corporal stood up slowly.

"What can you do for him that we cannot?" he asked.

"Probably nothing," came the soft reply.  "I cannot perform miracles.  But you have nothing to lose by letting me try."  One of the men started to protest but then broke off suddenly.  The corporal heaved a deep sigh.

"Very well," he said.  "What do you need?"

"A blanket, to start with.  And you will be making a campfire, no?"

"Sí. But— "

"Do you have a small container to boil water?"

"Sí."

"But we have no cauldrons," said Muñoz.

"Nor the blood of any lizards."

"I told you to shut up, Zavala," the corporal snapped.  "Go get a blanket.  Muñoz, you go get some firewood."

"Could you also tell him to bring a little green bark from that tree?"

"What for?"

"I need you to boil it in the water.  It is medicinal."

After a long moment, the corporal sighed again and said, "I will get it for you."  Then, as Zavala returned, he added, "Here is your blanket.  Now I suppose you want me to remove those."

"It would help."

"Are you crazy?" Zavala protested.  "Can’t you see that this is exactly what we were told not to— "

"Private Zavala," said the corporal stiffly.  "I am in command here.  This is my responsibility.  Look at her.  How far do you think she will get in ankle irons and bare feet?"

Diego heard the tumblers click and the shackles fall.  Zavala said nothing.  But then, as the corporal left, he muttered to Muñoz, "I think maybe he better quit looking at her."

"I think maybe you better quit looking at her too," Muñoz replied with the faintest trace of a smirk in his voice.  "Come help me with the fire."

As Diego felt her cover him with the blanket, wiping his face with a corner of it, he dared to try opening his eyes again.  Sunlight lit the golden hair that fell across the side of her face in a tangle of curls.  She brushed it aside, her dark blue eyes soft as velvet.  He tried to say her name but found he couldn’t remember it.  She glanced up nervously, then back at him.  "Be still.  It is better for you to play dead a while longer."

He couldn’t help but smile.  "Good acting, no?"

"Very good."  Oddly enough, that remark seemed to have brought tears to her eyes, but she struggled to blink them back, and to keep the smile from her own lips as she looked up to see the corporal approaching her.  He held out his hand for her to examine the contents.

"Is this what you wanted?"

"Sí—Corporal . . . ?  Oh, please forgive me.  I do not believe we have been introduced."

"Esquivel," said the man a bit hesitantly.  "Corporal Enrique Esquivel.  At your service."

"A pleasure to meet you, Corporal Esquivel.  I am Oreana Venancio, and this is Diego de la Vega, son of Don Alejandro de la Vega.  And sí, this is just what we needed."

"And—one simply boils it in water?"

Oreana examined the fluffy pieces of green bark a bit more carefully, picking over some of the darker ones, yet being careful not to touch the hand that held them.  "Sí," she said softly, without looking up.  "Just a little water, a cup or two.  And boil it gently.  Until the water darkens."

He nodded, then headed over to where Muñoz and Zavala were fanning the pieces of kindling they had gathered.  Meanwhile, Oreana collected the chains that bound her ankles, then shifted her skirt modestly until she sat cross legged.  Then she shut her eyes and pressed her palms together as if in prayer, breathing softly.  Without even looking, Diego knew what she was doing.  He could feel the subtle shift as the earth around them seemed to grow just a bit heavier.  When her fingers finally moved over his eyes, he felt a slight pressure.  Then, suddenly, something gave way, and, as if it were a chunk of ice, the pain in his head began to melt and flow out of him into the ground, slowly, but surely enough that he couldn’t keep from letting a quick trembling sigh escape his lips.

"Shhh . . . ."  She let her fingers brush his temple, but when he tried to reach for her hand, he realized that the iron shackles on his own wrists were quite heavy.

"How long?"

"A while.  You were in and out."

"And you?  All right?"

She nodded, but as his vision began to clear, he noticed the bruises around her throat and a deep red scratch just below the line of her jaw.

"How did you— "

As if in reply, she brought her fingers down over his eyes, closing them gently.  "Rest now," she said, "let me do my work.  If you must do something, think about sunlight."  Her hand itself felt warm, perhaps even bright.  Then, after a few moments, he heard the voice of Corporal Esquivel, and the warmth faded as she turned her attention to him.

"Señorita, how is he?"

"It is difficult to say.  He was struck very hard.  He should not have been moved at all."

The corporal looked down biting his lip.  "I—I have orders— "

"Sí, I know."

"Is this what you— "  He squatted down on his haunches and offered her a tin cup, which she reached for shyly.  Then she wrapped her hands around it and raised it to her nose, breathing in.  As she breathed out, Diego thought he saw the cup begin to glow, and he knew the soldier sensed something, too, for just as she started to tell him it was fine, he asked her, "Are you really . . . what they say?"  She looked down.

"I guess Padre Eusepio will have to tell us this, no?"

"Who?"

"Eusepio Marigál.  Is he not the one who has given you these orders?"

"My orders come from the commandante of the Presidio de San Diego, Señorita."

"Ah, sí, you are not from Los Angeles, then.  That was wise.  Or you would probably know the de la Vegas."

"I will bring some food, Señorita."  Corporal Esquivel got to his feet.

"Gracias."  Oreana finally looked up at him, if only for an instant.

"Soon I will have to— "

She glanced at the irons he had taken from her wrists.  "Sí, I know."

"I should not even be talking with you," he said as he walked quickly away.

"He is quite taken with you," said Diego after a moment.  "But he will not let us go."

"No, I do not think so either."  She shook her head and sighed.  "But now that Marigál has us in custody, I see no need to escape, at least not yet.  He is taking us where we want to go.  And the Corporal is a decent man; he will help us, to the extent that his orders permit, if he thinks we are being poorly treated."  Then she let a faint smile appear.  "This is quite an astute observation for someone in your condition, Señor."

"A little jealousy will do wonders," he smiled, only half joking.

"So will this."  Her own smile turned slightly mischievous as she bent to lift up his shoulders, then slid under him, propping his head against her thigh.  Finally, she reached for the tin cup and placed it carefully in his hands, steadying it with her own.  "Drink as much of this as you can."

The drink, though sufficiently cooled, had a green, acrid taste about as horrible as anything he could imagine.  Despite his thirst, he could barely keep from spitting it out.  Wincing, he handed it back to her.  "If you wanted me out of the way, you know, you could simply have waited."

"I would drink all of it if I were you," she said as she ran her fingers gently down through his hair until they reached the base of his skull where, suddenly, another icy chunk of pain began to melt away.  "Hold your nose," she added mercilessly.

With the wave of nausea the first gulp of the stuff had brought on, he wasn’t sure how long the next one would stay with him, but he did manage to get it down—and felt worse.  As if in commiseration, she took the cup and drank what was left, making a terrible face.

"Aí, que horrible!"

"Somebody should have warned you," he said dryly.  Then it occurred to him that if he were going to die, he couldn’t think of a better place to do it than exactly where he was, his head in her lap, her smiling down at him, caressing his face.  Summoning all his strength, he finally caught her hand and brought it to his lips.

"Ah—so I see you are not quite at death’s door," she said, running her fingertips through his hair again to brush it off his forehead.  "You will feel much better tomorrow."

"I would feel much better tonight if we were alone," he said, letting the back of his hand lightly brush the inside of her thigh.

"Señor . . ." she said in a tone of mock reproach.  But her smile vanished as she noticed the corporal walking toward them, some tin plates and another blanket in his hands.  Just before he reached them, he paused to grab the shackles that lay near the rear wheel of the wagon.  A sinking feeling enhanced Diego’s nausea as she slid her thigh from under his head and stood up.

"I am sorry," said the corporal as he handed her the food; "I will wait until you have eaten.  I also regret that I can offer you no better place to sleep than this cart.  But I would not have it said that I obliged a Spanish lady in my care to sleep on the ground, out in the open, with the soldiers."

"You are very kind," she said, taking the plates from him, then seating herself again.  Diego shook his head, but then, at Oreana’s coaxing, he reluctantly took a few bites of the cold beans while she herself ate as though she hadn’t eaten in days, which, now that he thought about it, she probably hadn’t.  In the last faint traces of the twilight that remained, he could still see the bruises on her neck, and he knew the corporal must have seen them too.  He also knew he should already know where they had come from, but he couldn’t remember.  In fact, he couldn’t remember much about the previous night except the way she had looked at him while they were dancing.

The corporal stood patiently with his back to them, keeping an eye on the campfire and his men for quite some time.  Then finally when she stood up, he put the irons on her wrists again and draped the blanket lightly over her shoulders, motioning graciously toward the cart.

"Will it be necessary to . . . ?"  He held up the padlock that had fastened her shackles to the crate’s inner wall.  She shook her head.

"I have no wish to escape," she said.  "Even if I did have the means, surely you must know that I would never leave without him."

The corporal nodded.  "I had thought as much," he said, and Diego realized that her honesty could only have heightened the man’s regard for her.  He himself longed for her touch as much as he wished he could quell the longing, though, unlike the soldier, he now thought it more ill timed than immoral.  Once her pagan ethics had seemed rather childlike, but now he knew he would never again be able to believe that what they had done was wrong, or to repent of it—even in the face of the Spanish Inquisition.

Don Alejandro sat quietly in a chair before the fireplace in the library, sipping a glass of brandy.  The weather had turned cooler since last night, and he thought perhaps there might even be rain, having noticed the clouds gathering on the western horizon.  After the midday meal, he had gone out to make sure his horse had been properly fed and cared for.  He would need the animal in good shape tomorrow.  And he, too, would need a good night’s rest, if he could get one, though he supposed he might sleep better this night than last.

Leaning over to grab the candelario from a nearby table, he lit his cigar and thought about what the priests had told him this morning.  He still wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about Diego’s having kept him in the dark—not just about Marigál and Endicott, but about a man who had been a guest under their own roof.  On the one hand, his decision to help el Zorro catch these men had been a brave one, just as Padre Felipe had said.  But it made the old man wonder what else he hadn’t been told.  For years, Diego truly had seemed like no more than the quiet, ineffectual head-in-the-clouds scholar everyone thought he was.  But now, clearly, he had shown a rather disquieting capacity for deceit, at least if he hadn’t been unduly influenced by the masked outlaw.

Not that Alejandro doubted Padre Felipe’s judgment for an instant.  Though el Zorro often cut a few legal corners, he was truly a champion of justice—and more to be trusted than Capitan Acevedo, who, if he were interested in justice at all, would heed the clues he had been given via Sergeant Garcia.  But obviously Zorro was also a man who didn’t mind taking risks with his own life.  How careful would he be with Diego’s?  Like the rash young caballero he no doubt was, Zorro probably thought he would live forever, blithely assuming that the catastrophes others suffered would never touch him.  What worries must his father endure?

And apparently not even Zorro really knew what kind of malevolence he was up against, Alejandro thought as he got up and stirred what was left of the fire.  It was enough to make you think there might be something to Marbella’s prattling about the devil.  It was lucky that Padre Felipe had thought to contact a priest from the Mission Dolores.  Some of the priests there had also had their doubts about Marigál, especially after a wealthy landowner had just disappeared.  But then their suspicions had been confirmed with the arrival of Padre Luis, who, it seemed, was from the Vatican.  For years, he had been on the track of a renegade priest whose practices had, at least in part, spurred the Pope to issue an official ban, seven years earlier, on the use of torture.

Though the renegade had been excommunicated, he had fled, first to Mexico, then to Alta California, where he continued to use his skill both for profit and, apparently, for sport.  If not for Padre Felipe’s timely query, Padre Luis might never have known to come to Los Angeles.  He had arrived only the day before, but he had urged extreme caution, given Marigál’s almost uncanny ability to win the confidence of local authorities like Capitan Acevedo.  They might all end up jailed as heretics, the young priest had said.  So they had simply let Marigál leave town, knowing they could do nothing afterwards but pray—and wait to hear from el Zorro.

Fortunately their prayers had been answered a little sooner than they had anticipated when Alejandro told them about the sketches of Descanso.  They, too, thought this small out of the way mission with its young inexperienced padre would be a likely place for Marigál to hold his victims.  Alejandro had wanted to start out right away.  But Padre Luis had convinced him to wait.

"His victims are like pieces on a chess board," the young man had said.  "He sets himself between a father and son and uses their feelings for each other to threaten them both.  If you cooperate, in the end you will probably lose your lands but not your lives.  On the other hand, if he thinks you mean to expose his villainy, he will have to risk killing you and maybe your son also.  No doubt he will soon send someone to test your intentions."

And Alejandro had been somewhat gratified when Matthew Endicott had indeed appeared at his door that very afternoon—to pay his respects, share the latest news, and offer his services, if they were needed.  He hadn’t been wearing a pistol, but Alejandro figured he probably had one like Urbino’s in his saddlebags.

He wondered if Endicott knew Urbino was dead.  Diego had obviously known, he realized, shaking his head once again at how surprisingly cagey his son had turned out to be.  He hoped that he himself might be cagey enough to hide his disgust at hearing Endicott blithely explain that the murdered girl had turned out to be the barmaid Amalia, whose father had come only this morning looking for her.  Of course, no one could prove that Endicott himself had had anything to do with it, Alejandro knew.  But when he had said, "Quite a shocking business, isn’t it?" frowning, sipping his tea, he hadn’t sounded very shocked at all.

In fact, Alejandro had not been able to continue sitting at the same table with him, there under the old tree in the courtyard.  But luckily Endicott had read his revulsion as worry.

"Oh, I’m sure you’ll get word soon about Diego’s whereabouts," he had said gently.  "Your Capitan Acevedo has promised to ask General Iturbide himself for help in apprehending el Zorro.  But I still think Diego may just have run off with the young lady—and who could blame him, eh?  I know I couldn’t.  I bet you’ll be a grandfather by this time next year."

Alejandro had closed his eyes and tried not to clench his fists.  "Sí," he said noncommittally.

"I suppose it’s got to be very hard just sitting here waiting, though," Endicott ventured.

"Well, what else would one do?"

"Go look for them, perhaps."

"But where would one even begin such a search?" Alejandro replied, feeling no small amount of satisfaction at having avoided an outright lie.

"I guess you’re right," the young man shrugged.  "After all, if Diego really had been kidnaped and you did leave here, and the kidnapers tried to contact you, what then?"

"The devil knows more because he’s old than because he’s the devil," Alejandro had replied, savoring the irony of that remark.  Charmed, Endicott had laughed lightly and finished his tea.

"Well, then, I defer to the wisdom of age," he had said, rising into a gracious smile, pausing to bow before he turned to go.  After exchanging good-byes, Alejandro had watched him ride off, heading, as he had said, for San Diego.  Then he had gone to prepare for his own journey the next day.  He would leave early in the morning, ostensibly to inspect the herds.  Then, he would travel southeast, cross country, and catch up with the two padres on the road to Capistrano.  That, he figured, would take care of anyone Marigál might have left in the area to spy on him.  He and the priests would then go to the authorities in San Diego, assuming Marigál had not somehow gotten to them, too.

"Don Alejandro?"  He heard the library door open against a timid voice.  "Would there be anything else one might bring you?"

"No, gracias."  Alejandro got up.  "I believe I will go to bed now."

"Sí, Patrón."  Crescencia nodded, backing away, but clearly that hadn’t been all she wanted to ask.

"I’ll be leaving early tomorrow morning," he added quietly.  "Benito will be in charge."  She glanced down, bringing her hand to her mouth.  "I will not be gone long," he said.

She gave a quick little nod, and as she looked up at him again, not daring to meet his eyes, he found himself wondering if this woman truly had been in his service for over thirty years.  Was this the same girl whose slender fingers had moved so nimbly over the rich purple fabric of that damned ill fated gown, helping her mistress take it in yet another time?

"Do not show these drawings to anyone."

"Sí, Patrón."

As the scene flashed before his mind’s eye, he saw Crescencia’s face for an instant as it had been, the eyes so young and innocent.  And then he saw the face of the woman seated next to her, remembering the way they both had looked, sitting there on that old regency divan, the mounds of purple cloth spread out across their laps.  Diego’s mother brushed aside a lock of dark wavy hair and smiled up at him.  Then he winced, a little surprised at how much he still missed her—though he knew Crescencia hadn’t meant to remind him.  She just couldn’t help it.

"If anyone should arrive with a message for me," he said, "tell them Benito can deliver it."

"Sí, Don Alejandro."

"And do not worry," he added, almost to himself.  "Upon my life, I will not lose them both."

The following morning, in the pre-dawn twilight, the waning moon hung heavily on the western horizon.  On a nearby bluff overlooking the de la Vega hacienda, two men sat on horses laden with bedrolls and saddle bags.  The dark one with curly hair shivered a little and drew his leather jacket tighter against the chill.  The young fair-skinned one chuckled in amusement.

"You think this is cold," he said.  "You ought to see where she meant to send you.  Up there they still have snow in the mountains.  Ever seen snow, Silvio?"

"No, Señor."

"Well believe me, it’s lucky we had the soldiers bring you in," Endicott went on.  "You know, Spain can get pretty cold in the winter, but you Igualances—ha!  That’s really a tropical climate where you come from, isn’t it.  Compared to California."

"Sí, Señor."

"You know, you’re a delightful conversationalist, Silvio," the young man went on.  "I almost hate to leave you here, though I fear I must.  That old man, well, he seems resigned to wait.  But I don’t entirely trust him.  I have to catch up with those soldiers soon, before your little bruja has them completely under her spell—eh?  But you stay here and keep watch.  If Don Alejandro goes anywhere, follow him.  And if he looks like he’s even thinking about heading to Capistrano, kill him.  Once the Padre gets through with the son, their lands will all revert back to the government anyway, to be redistributed.  So we don’t really need him."

Silvio nodded.

"Oh—and I suggest that you don’t build a fire," Endicott added jovially.  "Smoke, you know."  Then he turned and headed north, up the road that would lead to el Camino Real.  Still shivering a little, Silvio watched him go, his eyes narrowing into a thoughtful frown.  After a moment he took from the inner pocket of his jacket a single gold earring set with an amethyst stone.  Then, after looking at the way it sparkled in the soft early morning moonlight, he crossed himself and started to throw it away, only to put it back in his pocket.  Finally, with a sigh, he began to search for a warm place nearby where he could wait and watch.