Lola Montez Conquers the Spaniards (36 page)

He was scrabbling, one-handed, in a pouch he kept at his waist, and pulled forth a long thin
cigarillo.
Once he'd lit it, I understood even more: the scent on his hands, on those of Coria, the potent insistent smell. I recognized it from India, from our native porters and gardeners: It was ganja. Strong ganja.

“Pedro Coria,” I faltered. “You knew him; you told me so.”

“The Society of the Exterminating Angel will exult when it hears!” Oh God, then I wished I'd said nothing, for he was immediately frothing again, claiming that Coria the northerner was a turncoat, worked for a foreign organization, but the Society of the Exterminating Angel could never glean from him which one. Coria would smoke with the priest, they both had the compulsion, but Coria had never relaxed his guard—de la Vega could get nothing from him. “Foreign devil! Expunged!”

Then there was a horrible silence while he smoked and dreamed. Then he leaned even closer to whisper directly into my ear, in breath suffused with the scent of the drug. “That reminds me—Lola Montez. Your new persona?” I could hear his lips on his teeth, in what for the priest constituted a smile, and I closed my eyes, shuddering violently:
There was only one place and only one time when he could have learned this. In the stable, with Diego. In the heat of our passion and joy. “Lola Montez will not be your shield,” the Jesuit promised, and then, “I wish I'd seen you fall from the fly tower. But if I had, I wouldn't have this day of glory, in front of my society, to anticipate.” An unholy snigger came from his throat, followed by, “I warrant you're sorry now that I had to endure your lecherous dream sounds, night after night. Aren't you?”

“Yes.” I gave him what he wanted to hear. And it was the truth.

When morning came, Conquistador's leg was crusted with blood and mud, and he had a bad limp. The Jesuit was in a foul temper over it.

“Let me free for a minute. Let me look at it and tend it,” I begged, almost beyond hope for myself, trying to focus my attention upon a tangible goal. “If you don't, he'll be no good to you. It's the waste of a beautiful horse.”

“What do I care about beautiful horses?” the man snarled, but he eventually relented. He untied my hands and kept the pistol trained at my head while I led the horse to a stream. The stallion drank and drank, then began ripping hungrily at the grass while I bathed the leg and tried to clean it. I reached to tear the hem of my shirt—no longer white, but one of the only parts of me not spattered with Matilde's blood.

“What are you doing?” the Jesuit cried, with real horror.

“The leg should be bound.”

“Leave your clothing alone! Succubus! You will do anything to corrupt me!”

I closed my eyes, let go of the shirt. If I looked at him, if I acknowledged his evil, my quailing heart told me, I wouldn't survive another second. Eyes still closed, I went on, “Please. Please let me take the other horse to the stream. He's so thirsty and hungry. They can't go on.”

It angered him to listen to me, but he must have realized the truth of what I was saying. Carefully, I tethered the stallion, then went to Lindo and removed the hobbles. His eyes, dark and huge, regarded me, then
I led him to the water. All the time, as I stroked the horse's skin and his throat worked, drinking, my mind raced: These are my only chances. When my hands are free. How am I to get away? De la Vega will kill me the instant I make a move. He will kill Lindo. At the end of today, I may be in the clutches of the society. And then I
will
die.

But Pamplona is a city, and it is easier to hide in a city than on a flat plain. How to ensure he unties me again, long enough to—do what? Something, anything. No way to ensure a thing. But seize the opportunity. Is it now?

Too late. I suddenly felt the cold steel of the pistol against the back of my neck. “Time to go, whore.” I could smell the scent from his hands, again pungent and thick. Where was the powder bag and the other pistol?

Again, we rode. Conquistador's leg began bleeding again almost immediately. It was sickening to see how gallantly the horse carried on, how he tried to obey the brutal human who kept torturing him with blows to the flanks, blows between the ears. I've never known such hatred—in the priest, but also growing within myself. Every time he struck a blow, my fury grew and my focus narrowed. My hands, again tied, began to go numb, but all that morning I concentrated on flexing and moving them, determined to seize it—whatever
it
was—at the next possible moment.

We rode past a group of field workers with hoes and spades over their shoulders. Feverishly, I debated whether to call out to them. That moment, too, passed. He turned back and smiled a yellow smile. “Good choice. We're in the Navarre and you're a Cristino—I will inform them. These people have long memories.”

“They're human beings.”

“Unlike myself, do you infer? Oh no no. I am a Jesuit priest. The Navarre is the home of the sainted founder of our order. They are deeply religious. Why would anything that I do be under suspicion?” He was in that odd, exalted mood again, and I understood—it was the ganja. His only indulgence, but my, how he was indulging now.

Hour after hour we rode. As far as I knew, he had not eaten anything at all since flying down from the haymow to the bloody mess below.
I certainly had not. I began to fear faintness, while trying to remain steeled for action. Such a state is exhausting, on no food or water, and for hours on end. Was it hopeless? Not quite yet. Or so I vowed.

Late afternoon, de la Vega's energy again began to escalate, his mind to wander to the coming exhilaration. I sensed we were not as near the city as he'd hoped because of the stallion's injured leg, and this was increasing the man's agitation. He gave the horse another blow. Conquistador squealed and reared, and the priest nearly fell. He cursed, yanked at the reins, and flung himself to the ground. “Enough! This horse is useless!” and he dragged out my pistol, opened it, messily poured in the black powder, then flung the leather bag down from behind the saddle, searching for a cap to complete the loading—all the while dragging on the reins and causing the stallion to rear and startle.

“No!” I was screaming, “What are you doing? Let me ride him!” Then I thought of something. “If you kill him,” I said quickly, “there will only be one. You don't want to ride on the same horse with me.” Just thinking of such proximity made me shudder. But, as I'd hoped, it made the priest shudder more.

He cursed again, dropped the stallion's reins and came towards me. Conquistador danced and snorted at the sudden movement, then lifted his trembling leg and lowered his head. Stay there, I prayed. Remember your training, my beauty, just a little longer: When the reins are on the ground, you stay where you are. The Jesuit approached me with distaste, reaching up to untie my hands. To do so, he placed the pistol at his feet. Lindo, unusually, danced sideways, perhaps trying to get further from the noxious presence. “Calm, Lindo,” I told him. My hands were free. The priest bent immediately and retrieved the pistol, stuck it aggressively against my ribs as I was dismounting, poked me with it as I moved towards the stallion. And then—how it happened, why it happened, I have no idea, but it is true—I heard a loud squeal behind me, a grunt, and a thud. I wheeled around, and de la Vega lay sprawled on the ground, pistol in the dirt six feet from him. Lindo's ears were flat to his head: He had reared, striking the priest and knocking him down. Conquistador, galvanized, galloped stiffly off down the road, reins trailing.
Carpe diem!
I pounced on the pistol, then trained it on the priest,
while with the other hand I gathered Lindo's reins. That's all I'd need, having both horses desert me.
Dios,
I prayed, please give me strength.

De la Vega sneered, looking at the pistol, and said, “You wouldn't dare. And it's not fully loaded.” He sat up, and I waggled the weapon at him threateningly. This gave him pause, at least. Then, at top speed, I reached inside my bodice, pulled out the cap that was waiting there, broke open the gun, slipped the cap into the chamber, and snapped it together. How glad I was that I'd practiced so assiduously! Appalled to see my hand at my breast, he'd started frothing and cursing, but when he realized what I was up to, he lunged. I jumped back and shot, startling Lindo. It was a bad shot because I'd been taken by surprise, but there was a grunt, and blood began to spurt from his thigh, followed by a high thin whine of pain and disbelief. We stared, each perhaps waiting for the other to make the first move. Then I moved, fast, leaping towards the saddlebag, scrabbling with the faux book and yanking out the second pistol—still there,
gracias à dios!
But still loaded with powder? I had no idea. Blessings on Lindo, he'd circled around with me and was standing, ears cocked. The priest was writhing around and bleeding profusely as I pulled the other cap from my bodice and began the speedy ritual again—the second pistol
was
loaded with powder, thank all the saints and their mothers.

“I must kill you,” I said, completing the action with a snap, and pointing the second pistol at his head. I couldn't believe what I'd just uttered, but it had to be done. “I do it for Matilde, and her baby.” I took a deep breath—a shaking hand, needing to steady my aim, another cautious step closer to ensure it was fatal—“And for Diego.” I'll never forget the look on the priest's face. He was about to meet his maker, sins unshriven; other atrocities for which he'd require atonement, not possible now, perhaps passing before his eyes. Go straight to hell,
fanático,
and good riddance, I thought. I pulled the trigger and . . . nothing. A feeble click.

“Shit,
merde
!” I grabbed the saddlebag, shoved my foot in the stirrup, and swung up onto Lindo. I whispered into the stiff, hairy tube of his ear: “Run, Lindo! Save us!” Leaving the clearing only half in the saddle, I righted myself as the horse tore off down the road, hooves flying. My
heart was in a frenzy of haste and fear. Still alive! Oh fuckity fuck! Streaking along, clinging like a limpet, as I'd often been known to do at age six, in India, racing my pony across the plains, but this time for real, and the treasure is my life! Fly!

I should have smashed him with a rock, bashed his brains in, I babbled away into Lindo's ear. But what rock, and how? He's a fearsome assassin; he would have grabbed you and beaten you to death instead. Sacred Mary, Mother of God! What is he doing at this moment, crawling and cursing? Dragging himself to the road? Is he bleeding enough to make him pass out? Is the road well travelled; will he be found very quickly? Of course they will help him; he's a man of God. He'll tell his tale, then a posse of men will be rounded up, ready to search out the treacherous woman who could have done such a thing to a son of St. Francis Xavier, saint of the Navarre.

Such were my frantic speculations, clinging to Lindo's back, listening to his laboured breath and pounding hooves—as if the horse understood the gravity of the situation, the requirement of speed, and needed no urging. Diego had been right, Lindo ran like the wind, neck outstretched, legs reaching, heart pumping energy into his exhausted, hungry limbs.

We must have galloped several miles when off to the left I caught a glimpse of dark copper between the bare branches of a grove of trees. I reined Lindo in and circled back. It was Conquistador, with his head down, wheezing. As we approached, the stallion flung his head up again, ready to bolt away. Lindo whickered, and perhaps this was calming. I dismounted carefully, held my hand out in what I hoped was a soothing manner, murmuring words of encouragement. One moment I thought all was lost, when the stallion again threw up his head and snorted violently. He'd been so hurt, a proud horse who had trusted and had the trust beaten out of him, but then I took hold of the one unbroken rein still trailing, and he stood for me.

I gibbered away to them both—what to do, what to do—while I stroked Conquistador's neck and then Lindo's. One thing was certain: The most dangerous man in the world was too close, and we couldn't linger. I shoved the second pistol into the saddlebag with the first: a quick look, and yes, the faux book and the powder bag were still there, along with whatever remained of Diego's money. Thank God. The priest's dark black cloak was also tied across the back of the saddle. It would be warmer than mine, but I'd have to remove the insignia, and how could I bear the smell of him? I could bear it, because I needed it, half frozen as I was. But then the worries began again: how to ride fast while leading the stallion? Doesn't matter, just get going, somehow a way will be found. Sling on the cloak, fasten it at the neck, and ignore the reek.