him. “Tell her ... thank you.”
Norte shrugged. “She knows.”
“Tell ... her.”
A hurried exchange in a strange and exotic tongue. “She said it was Doña Marina’s herbs that made you better,” Norte said.
Benítez closed his eyes. A strange world. He was thirty three years old and he had seen little enough mercy in his life. As for the kindness of women, that had been rarer still. He did not delude himself; his features and his shy manners did not make him a lady’s man. This Rain Flower, given him as a camarada, a servant-concubine, had helped him not because he was rich or handsome, but simply because she herself was kind.
How strange. How very strange.
———————
MALINALI
We set off at dawn, the thunder gods at the fore, the moles stumbling behind, loaded down with armour and weapons. Our column snakes through the dunes, making hard work of it through the pebbled sand.
I follow on foot behind Puertocarrero, who rides his war beast. The sun and the muscle-breaking sand are not our only enemies; halfway through the morning one of the men steps on a scorpion and his screams follow us even when he is so far distant we cannot even see him.
Late in the afternoon I stumble, my foot catching in a tree root hidden in the sand. I feel my ankle wrench and twist. I gasp in pain but I do not cry out; I have been taught from birth not to show pain. Puertocarrero rides on, ignorant of what has happened to me.
The moles tramp past, too pre-occupied with their own misery to worry about some lord’s camarada. I wait for the pain to subside. Finally I attempt to stand but my leg will not support me and I fall back on my haunches.
“Are you all right, my lady?”
A deep, rich voice. It is him. The sun is behind him, putting a golden aura around his head. I have to shield my eyes to look at him. He his beast of war and walks over to me.
“You are hurt?”
I do not understand the words but I recognise the tone of gentle concern. I point to my left ankle. He bends down to examine it. His touch is gentle. He looks into my face. The grey eyes are penetrating.
I squeeze out a small tear for his benefit, although the pain is not so bad. I move my leg, allow my tunic to rise a little higher. But just then one of the other lords rides up and spoils the moment.
Chapter Eighteen
Alvarado reined in beside Cortés. “What’s happening?”
“The Lady Marina has injured her ankle.”
“By the sacred balls of all the Popes...”
“Order a stop. We will have the bearers make her a litter from tree saplings. They will have to carry her.”
Alvarado shook his head in disbelief. “All this fuss for one puta? Leave her here, we can send the bearers back for her tomorrow.”
“She is not a puta, she is a Christian gentlewoman. She is also our eyes and ears with the naturales . How we will communicate with the Totonacs or the Mexica without her? Would you rather have Brother Aguilar draw pictures for us in the sand? At this moment she is worth more to us than the cannon, even more valuable than my second in command, perhaps. Should I leave you here, and send her on ahead on your horse? I can have the bearers come back for you tomorrow.”
Alvarado nodded, chastened by this harangue. “I will order a halt.”
“I would be obliged.”
Cortés turned back to the girl. She was smiling at him. An exquisite face framed by hair as black as a raven. And a delightful ankle, even when injured. Skin like velvet. Her tunic had ridden up allowing him an uninterrupted view of the silky softness inside her thighs.
Well.
A native princess with a command for language and, I do believe, a flair for politics. Too much of a woman for the likes of Puertocarrero.
In time I must find a remedy for that.
———————
The next morning they forded a shallow river and turned inland; abruptly they left the barren sand behind and tracked through bright green fields of maize. They plunged
Norte shrugged. “She knows.”
“Tell ... her.”
A hurried exchange in a strange and exotic tongue. “She said it was Doña Marina’s herbs that made you better,” Norte said.
Benítez closed his eyes. A strange world. He was thirty three years old and he had seen little enough mercy in his life. As for the kindness of women, that had been rarer still. He did not delude himself; his features and his shy manners did not make him a lady’s man. This Rain Flower, given him as a camarada, a servant-concubine, had helped him not because he was rich or handsome, but simply because she herself was kind.
How strange. How very strange.
———————
MALINALI
We set off at dawn, the thunder gods at the fore, the moles stumbling behind, loaded down with armour and weapons. Our column snakes through the dunes, making hard work of it through the pebbled sand.
I follow on foot behind Puertocarrero, who rides his war beast. The sun and the muscle-breaking sand are not our only enemies; halfway through the morning one of the men steps on a scorpion and his screams follow us even when he is so far distant we cannot even see him.
Late in the afternoon I stumble, my foot catching in a tree root hidden in the sand. I feel my ankle wrench and twist. I gasp in pain but I do not cry out; I have been taught from birth not to show pain. Puertocarrero rides on, ignorant of what has happened to me.
The moles tramp past, too pre-occupied with their own misery to worry about some lord’s camarada. I wait for the pain to subside. Finally I attempt to stand but my leg will not support me and I fall back on my haunches.
“Are you all right, my lady?”
A deep, rich voice. It is him. The sun is behind him, putting a golden aura around his head. I have to shield my eyes to look at him. He his beast of war and walks over to me.
“You are hurt?”
I do not understand the words but I recognise the tone of gentle concern. I point to my left ankle. He bends down to examine it. His touch is gentle. He looks into my face. The grey eyes are penetrating.
I squeeze out a small tear for his benefit, although the pain is not so bad. I move my leg, allow my tunic to rise a little higher. But just then one of the other lords rides up and spoils the moment.
Chapter Eighteen
Alvarado reined in beside Cortés. “What’s happening?”
“The Lady Marina has injured her ankle.”
“By the sacred balls of all the Popes...”
“Order a stop. We will have the bearers make her a litter from tree saplings. They will have to carry her.”
Alvarado shook his head in disbelief. “All this fuss for one puta? Leave her here, we can send the bearers back for her tomorrow.”
“She is not a puta, she is a Christian gentlewoman. She is also our eyes and ears with the naturales . How we will communicate with the Totonacs or the Mexica without her? Would you rather have Brother Aguilar draw pictures for us in the sand? At this moment she is worth more to us than the cannon, even more valuable than my second in command, perhaps. Should I leave you here, and send her on ahead on your horse? I can have the bearers come back for you tomorrow.”
Alvarado nodded, chastened by this harangue. “I will order a halt.”
“I would be obliged.”
Cortés turned back to the girl. She was smiling at him. An exquisite face framed by hair as black as a raven. And a delightful ankle, even when injured. Skin like velvet. Her tunic had ridden up allowing him an uninterrupted view of the silky softness inside her thighs.
Well.
A native princess with a command for language and, I do believe, a flair for politics. Too much of a woman for the likes of Puertocarrero.
In time I must find a remedy for that.
———————
The next morning they forded a shallow river and turned inland; abruptly they left the barren sand behind and tracked through bright green fields of maize. They plunged
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