Paradise & More (Torres Family Saga) (50 page)

      
Magdalena frantically scanned the area, searching for a weapon. Lorenzo had taken her dagger. The cowardly Indian had one, but she could not hope to wrest his weapon from him.

      
Aaron fought with amazing speed and agility, fending off both his deadly and desperate adversaries. But as he ducked, jumped and parried their blows, holding them was all he could do—until he made one mistake and they closed in for the kill.

      
Magdalena coughed as the wind changed directions and smoke blew in her face. Instantly the idea came to her. She raced around the fire pit and seized a long, slender piece of green wood lying to the side. She shoved one end of it in the fire to let it ignite, keeping her eyes on the combatants.

      
Magdalena knew she took a terrible risk as she struggled to heft the heavy pitch bucket. If the flames came near her, she would die just as Benjamin and his family had. The thought fortified her. With a loud curse, she screamed at Guzman.

      
Instinctively he turned, just in time to have a generous splash of the tarry paste hit him square in the chest.

Magdalena dropped the bucket and picked up the firebrand with lightning speed while Aaron and Guerra

continued their fierce duel.

      
Careful not to get her pitch-covered hands near the flame, she jabbed the stub at Lorenzo, who, divining her intent, paled and backed away from the other combatants. “How do you like this, Inquisitor's minion? You, who have sent saints to their deaths in the flames?” she grated out in loathing.

      
Icy sweat poured from his skin, and his gray eyes turned dark as pewter with terror. He could taste the ugly metallic fear in his mouth as he slashed at the torch, attempting to hold her back. Struggling to breathe, he ducked the firebrand's deadly strike once more. Then, recalling Guerra's advice to him about goading Aaron to make the man careless, he let a sneer curl his lips and spoke. “You will burn yourself, stupid little
marrano's
slut. Look you, the flames eat their way up the spear to your own pitch-soaked hands.”

      
Her eyes narrowed in quick calculation. “You called it a spear. So tis,” she replied as she threw it with a swift, hard thrust.

      
Although Lorenzo tried to deflect the flaming instrument of death, it caught his billowing shirt-sleeve. His scream ripped through the air as the fire flashed across his upper body with a hissing whoosh, transforming him into a human torch. He dropped his sword and began uselessly beating at the flames. Smeared with pitch, Magdalena realized her own danger. She quickly dashed away from Guzman, but he was beyond thoughts of catching her.

      
“The sea, the sea,” he shrieked, running headlong from the clearing down the rough, rocky pathway to the cove far below. His screams echoed up to where Guerra and Torres still fought.

      
Aaron had been cut several times before Guzman was taken from the fight. One slash on his sword arm particularly weakened his striking power. The older swordsman was a far worthier opponent than his young charge and now he closed in for the kill. But Aaron, bloodied as he was, still possessed the survival skills so hard won in the Moorish wars.

      
“You tire, my young friend, eh? You have lost much blood,” Guerra taunted.

      
“And you have lost your helper. One on one I will take you, Peralonso.”

      
“No, tis I will take you—and then your fiery woman. A dangerous piece, that one,” he said as he thrust boldly, only to be met by Aaron's parry.

      
Although the blue eyes darkened, they did not flame with the unreasoning passion that would give Guerra the edge he needed. Torres attacked with precision, nicking Guerra's arm before the older man could retreat.

      
“Now, we grow more evenly matched,” Aaron grated out grimly.

      
As they dodged and slashed, Magdalena picked up Guzman's discarded sword and kept an eye on the Taino across the clearing. After Lorenzo's cries died away, the Indian melted silently into the jungle, abandoning the nervous, shying horses. Magdalena debated attempting to catch them, then decided that was better left until the duel was over—and Aaron was victorious. She possessed no skill with the heavy broadsword and feared if she attempted to intervene she might accidentally harm her husband instead of helping him. She drew nearer the combatants, warily searching for a way to clearly slash Guerra if Aaron looked to need her aid.

      
They continually circled, back and forth, moving about the smoking fire in the pit, both now drenched with sweat and blood. Suddenly Aaron appeared to stumble on the uneven ground. Guerra quickly moved in for the kill, raising his sword in an arc of death as his foe went down on one knee.

      
Magdalena screamed and raised her heavy weapon, but before she could do more than take a step, it was finished. Aaron's sword blocked Guerra's and the dagger her husband had extracted from his belt slashed into Peralonso's soft belly. With a look of perfect astonishment, the courtier dropped his sword and fell to his knees as the knife ripped yet higher before Aaron pulled it free with a final twist.

      
“An old battlefield feint, but one apparently never called into use when noblemen duel at court,” Aaron said as he stood up, breathing heavily.

      
Guerra toppled to the ash-covered ground, dead. Magdalena dropped the sword and flew into her husband's arms. They held tightly to each other, sparing the dead man not a look. Then shouts from below on the beach interrupted them. Disengaging from Magdalena, Aaron carefully led her from the proximity of the fire. “Take care till we can get that deadly stuff washed off you,” he warned as he strode across the clearing and collected the saddled horses. He whistled and Rubio came trotting back into the clearing.

      
“How did you ride him without even a hackamore?” she asked in amazement.

      
“Twas not a simple matter,” he replied grimly as he helped her onto the smaller gelding that Guerra had ridden. He then took the hackamore from the skittish larger gray that had been Guzman's and placed it on Rubio. All three horses were nervous because of the smell of blood and death permeating the air, but when Aaron swung up on the bay's back, the horse obeyed him. “Leave the gray here while we greet Roldan's men below and see to Guzman.” He watched Magdalena pale as she remembered the flames licking at Lorenzo's face, enveloping his body as he ran down the hillside to the water.

      
“I wonder if he made it,” she said softly.

      
“Twould go easier on him if he did not. I have seen men live for days with pitch burns during the sieges in Andalusia. Tis not an easy death.”

      
“Would you wish him to have one?” she asked as they rode carefully down the trail.

      
Aaron shrugged wearily. His arm throbbed and he was too tired to think straight after all that had befallen them during the past few hours. “I once wanted him to die in the slowest, most horrible manner I could devise...and after what I had seen during the war, I could devise much. But now...I have had enough of death, Magdalena. I would rather have life.”

      
“So would I and so would your father, for us both,” she replied simply.

      
When they reached the cove and dismounted, the gromets and one officer from a caravel stood around Guzman's body. He had died but a few yards from the water's edge. As they approached the hideously charred remains with arms outstretched toward the lapping waves, Magdalena felt her bile rise and turned quickly into her husband's arms. Aaron shielded her from the grotesque sight and stroked her tangled hair, soothing her as the ship's master approached them.

      
“Who was he? God's bones, what a way to die!” He, too, looked away from the gruesome sight.

      
“Lorenzo Guzman, late of the ducal house of Medina-Sidonia. You made his acquaintance but a day or two ago, I believe,” Aaron answered.

      
“How came this gentleman to such an end?” the sailing master asked, looking at the bloodied man and pitch-stained woman before him.

      
“Tis a long and twisted tale. Don Lorenzo and his companion Guerra, who lies dead at the signal fire, were prisoners of Roldan. They escaped during an attack by the followers of Behechio. The battle yet raged in the compound when I rode off in pursuit of them, for they had taken my wife.” He held Magdalena close.

      
“I killed him,” she said in a clear, surprisingly strong voice, gesturing to the remains of Guzman. “I poured pitch on him and set a firebrand to him, and I would do it again before I let him kill my husband.”

      
The sailing master, a tall, portly man with a florid complexion, blanched at the iron determination in the small Castilian lady's expression. He averted his eyes from her and asked her husband, “You say Behechio's Tainos attack Roldan's stronghold?”

      
“Yes, but by the time I left, Roldan's forces were regaining control, although Behechio's men had fired the village. This offal and his companion wanted to flee Española in your ships. Doubtless they hoped to convince you the savages were hot upon this trail so you would weigh anchor at once and sail for Cadiz,” Aaron replied.

      
Juan de Leon looked alarmed. “Mayhap we should return to my ship. Although several other caravels have put in here and taken on brazilwood, then sailed for home, I have not the supplies.”

      
Aaron smiled grimly. “You would need to be able to return to Ysabel and secure them first—and as rebels you cannot do so.” He watched the sailing master bluster and redden nervously, then added, “Don Francisco and I had recently discussed his, er, return to the good graces of the governor. I will speak with him about it, but before I can return to the stronghold, my lady and I could use your assistance. Food and medicines, perhaps some cloth to bind this accursed wound,” he gestured to the dark red of congealed blood on his arm.

      
Magdalena could feel the way he leaned on her and suddenly realized that he was far more seriously injured than first she had thought. At once she took charge. “See you fetch clean water. There is a stream but a few dozen yards that way.” She pointed toward the hillside they had just traversed and sent one young gromet to fetch a bucket from the boat to do her bidding. Then she turned to the sailing master. “Have you bandages and medicines aboard your ship?”

      
“Our surgeon can be fetched forthwith, but might it not be safer to take you both to the ship?” Leon asked.

      
“We will be safe enough here. I am not incapacitated so badly that I cannot ride back to the compound. Nothing and no one puts me aboard a ship again,” Aaron added grimly as he walked stiffly over to a large flat rock, where he took a seat and then glared balefully at Magdalena and the sailing master.

      
“He is quite stubborn, as you can see. Please, fetch the surgeon and his wares quickly,” Magdalena said with a hint of a smile on her lips. She turned and walked toward Aaron. As she knelt and began to examine the wound on his arm, she whispered, “Never again aboard a ship? Twas as bad as Roldan said, then.”

      
He flinched, then replied, “We will sail to France to visit my family one day, mayhap, but there is no need now to board that ship. I must return to the stronghold.”

      
“You are certain Francisco will be victorious?” she asked nervously as the ship's boat grew smaller on the horizon and the gromet trotted up with the bucket of fresh water.

      
“Yes, he will triumph. The man has more lives and wiles than a score of black cats.” He paused a moment, then said, “Aliyah attempted to kill him just before the compound was attacked. He was asleep in his
hamaca
when she came in the darkness. He struggled with her and her own knife turned on her.”

      
Magdalena's busy hands ceased their cleansing of his wounds. She looked into his eyes. “Aliyah is dead then?”

      
He nodded, a deep melancholy now pervading his expression. “Yes, but before she died...” His voice broke for a moment and he reached out and clasped Magdalena's hand with both of his. “Before she died she told me Navaro was not dead.”

      
She froze. “But how could that be—the ashes, the burial urn—”

      
He loosened his tight grip on her hand and shrugged helplessly. “I do not know. She said that she sent him off with Tainos to a distant part of Española where I could never find him.”

      
“But we can! Surely his looks will be remarked on—he has your eyes and features, Aaron—the Torres stamp. No matter how many half-caste babies there may be, he will always stand out.”

      
His eyes warmed with love as he caressed her matted, tangled hair. “You would help me search for Navaro? How extraordinary you are, my lady, my love, my life,” he whispered. “If only Aliyah's hate did not lead her to tell one final lie. Mayhap we will search in vain...”

      
She swallowed, then said in a shaky voice, “I feared when Roldan said Navaro had been well the morning before his fatal sickness that she had killed her own child. That is possible, but I think she spoke truly. How much sweeter her revenge to let him live and yet keep him from us.” She reached up and caressed his cheek. “We will find him, my lord. We will!”

* * * *

      
Guacanagari sat very still on his mahogany throne, his face sad, yet its noble expression infused with dignity that belied his years. When Aaron finished telling the story of Aliyah's death and the defeat of Behechio's warriors by Roldan's army, the
cacique
nodded. “Hate consumed her. Even before she departed on her marriage journey, I feared the end would come this way. I am most saddened that she has used her own child in her poisonous schemes. We will begin a search at once. I will send runners to every village on this island...and if need be to every other island the Taino people have ever inhabited.”