Philippa Carr - Lion Triumphant

“So you admire her cleverness?”

“She has shown a certain wisdom in this matter,” he said.

On another occasion he talked of the death of the young King of France, François Deux, which took place in December of the last year although it was only now that we heard of it.

Don Felipe was excited by this news because of the effect it had on the Queen of Scotland.

François had died of an imposthume of the ear; and his young Queen, Mary of Scotland, had found there was no place for her in France. So she must return to her kingdom of Scotland.

“She will be less powerful now,” I said.

He answered: “She will be more of a threat to the woman who calls herself Queen of England.”

“I doubt our Queen cares overmuch for the people beyond the border.”

“She will have supporters everywhere, not only in Scotland but in France; and I am of the opinion that there are many Catholic gentlemen in England who would rally to her standard if she were to travel south.”

“So you wish for a civil war in my country?”

He did not answer; there was no need.

Life passed by smoothly; the days of my pregnancy were drawing to a close and I longed for my child to be born. I was shut into a little cocoon of contentment.

The preparations for the birth were almost ceremonious. The midwife was already installed in the house when my labor began; I went to the bedroom—that room of many memories—and it was there that my child was born.

I shall never forget the moment when he was laid in my arms. He was small … much smaller than Jacko had been, he had dark eyes and there was a down of dark hairs on his head.

I thought as soon as I saw him: My little Spaniard!

I delighted in him. I held him against me and I felt love overwhelm me, love such as I had never known for any other living being—except perhaps once for Carey. But there was no barrier between me and this child. He was my very own.

And as I held him in my arms Don Felipe came into the room. He stood by the bed and momentarily I remembered his standing there with the candle in his hand when I had feigned to be asleep.

I held the baby out for him to see and he looked at him in wonder and I saw the faintest color in his olive cheeks. Then his eyes met mine; they glowed with a luminosity I had never seen in them before.

I thought: It is the fulfillment of revenge.

Then he was looking at me; his gaze embraced us both and I was not sure what was in his thoughts.

Don Felipe ordained that the child should be called Roberto. I said that for me he should be Robert; but somehow I was soon calling him Roberto. It suited him better.

He was baptized in the chapel of the Hacienda with all the pomp that would have been given to the son of the house.

During the first weeks after his birth I thought of nothing beyond his welfare. Remembering how Honey used to feel because she had come before me and was not my mother’s own, I wanted no such heartaches for little Carlos. I tried to make him interested in the child, and he was; he took a protective attitude toward him because he was mine and was gentle with him. We were a happy little nursery. Jennet was in her element with babies; the fact that hers and mine were illegitimate worried her not in the least.

“Law bless us,” she said on one occasion, “they’m babies … little ’uns. That be good enough for the likes of I.”

Don Felipe often came to the nursery to see the child. I had seen him, bending over the cradle, staring at him. I knew that it satisfied his pride to have such a son.

One day I went into the escritorio and said to Don Felipe: “Your plan is complete. I have your child. Is it not time for you to keep to your promise? You have said we should go back to our homes.”

“The child is too young to travel,” he said. “You must wait until he is a little older.”

“How much older?” I asked.

“Would you take a child of a few months on the high seas?”

I hesitated. I thought of the storms and calms; I thought of the faces of sailors driven a little crazy by long days at sea. I said: “We should have gone before the child was born.”

“Wait awhile,” he said. “Wait until he is older.”

I went back to my room and brooded on what he had said. I laughed inwardly. He loves his son and does not want to lose him. Love! What does such a man know of love? He is proud of his son. Who would not be of Roberto? And he doesn’t want to lose him.

We lacked nothing. Anything we wanted we had. The only condition that was asked of us was that we show ourselves to be good Catholics. That was easy for Honey and Jennet because they were. As for myself: I had my children, Roberto and Carlos, to think of, and children were more important to me than my faith. I was not of the stuff that martyrs were made.

Don Felipe’s attitude changed toward me. He wished me to dine with him frequently. He would come into the garden where I sat with the children; and he even spoke now and then to Carlos, who began to lose his fear of him. But it was Roberto who enchanted him. There could be little doubt that the child was his. Already Roberto had a look of him. Strangely enough it did not repel me, only amuse me; and I loved Roberto nonetheless for that. In the same way I could see Jake Pennlyon clearly in Carlos and that somehow endeared the child to me.

And the months began to slip away without incident. Roberto was six months old and the winter was almost upon us.

I said to Don Felipe: “He is older now. We shall be going soon.”

“Wait for the winter to pass,” said Don Felipe.

And then the spring came and Roberto was one year old.

I HAD DINED WITH Don Felipe and we sat in the light of the candles and talked of Roberto: how he had a tooth, how he was crawling; how I was sure he had said: “Madre.”

Then I lifted my eyes and looking at him intently, I said: “I often think of my home. What news is there of England?”

“Nothing of interest. All I can think of is that the spire of St. Paul’s Cathedral was burned down and that although it was supposed it was struck by lightning a workman has now confessed—on his deathbed—that a pan of coals was carelessly left in a steeple.”

It must have been a mighty conflagration. They would have seen it in the sky along the river. My grandmother would have come into her garden to watch; and perhaps my mother would be with her. They would remember perhaps the way the smoke used to drift along from Smithfield. And my mother would remember her two girls who were lost to her.

“Darling Cat and Honey,” she would say. There would be tears in her eyes. How lonely she must be without us.

He said: “Of what are you thinking?”

“Of my mother. She will be sad thinking of me and my sister. Both of us to have been snatched away. What a tragedy for her and there have been so many tragedies in her life.”

I was silent and then he said: “You are smiling now.”

“I am thinking of our going back. She will love Roberto, her grandson. Dearly she loves children. I think I inherited that from her. And Carlos shall not be forgotten! I shall say, ‘Mother, this is my adopted son as Honey was your adopted daughter. He belongs with us now.’ We shall be happy again.”

His face was impassive and I went on: “Roberto is one year old. He is old enough to travel. Now you must keep your promise. It is time for us to go back.”

He shook his head. “You cannot take the child,” he said.

“Not take my son!”

“He is my son too.”

“Your son. What is he to you?”

“He is my son.”

“But this child is part of me. He is my own. I would never give him up.”

“He is part of me. Nor shall I give him up.” He smiled at me gently. “How your eyes blaze! There is an alternative. I would not rob a mother of her child, and as I will not give up my son, if you will keep him you must stay here.”

I was silent. Then I said: “Always you have led me to understand that you wished me no ill.”

“Nor do I.”

“You have told me that it is only because of a vow you made that I am here. You led me to believe that when you had fulfilled that vow I should be at liberty to go.”

“You are at liberty … but not to take the child with you.”

I stood up. I wanted to get away to think. He was at the door before me, barring it.

“You will never leave your child,” he said. “Why not accept what cannot be avoided? You can be happy here. What is it you want? Ask me and it shall be yours.”

“I want to go home, to England.”

“Ask anything but that.”

“It is what I want.”

“Then go.”

“And leave my child behind?”

“He shall lack nothing. He is my son.”

“I believe you are glad that he is born.”

“I was never more pleased with anything.”

“You could have been had he been born of Isabella.”

“He would not have been Roberto. He has something of you in him.”

“And that pleases you?”

“It pleases me, for if you ever went away there would be something to remind me.”

“And you wish to be reminded?”

“I do not need the reminder. I shall never forget.”

Then he drew me to him and held me against him.

“I would,” he said, “that we could have more sons like this one.”

“How could that be?”

“It is not beyond your power to understand.”

“You have a wife. Have you forgotten?”

“How could I forget?”

I said: “You never see her.”

“She screams at the sight of me.”

“She could be cured.”

“She can never be cured.”

“You loved her once.”

“I have loved one woman,” he said. “I still love her. I shall do so to the end of my life.” He looked steadily at me.

“You cannot tell me that you feel love for me, your victim? You hated coming to me as much as I hated it. You had to pretend I was Isabella. You had to remind yourself constantly of your vow.”

He took my hands and held first one to his lips and then the other.

“If you loved me,” I said, “you would wish to please me. You would let me go.”

“Ask anything but that,” he said.

I felt exultant. It was a victory. Fate had turned the tables. He was at my mercy now, not I at his.

“Tell me,” he went on, “that you do not harbor resentment against me. Tell me that you do not hate me.”

“No,” I said, “I don’t hate you. In a way I’m fond of you. You have been kind to me … apart from your violation of me, and that I will admit was conducted in a courteous manner … if one can imagine rape so being. You have tried to save me from the evil laws of your country. But you do not love me well enough to make me happy, which you would do by letting us go.”

“You ask too much,” he said. “It will be different now. You do not hate me. Could you grow fond of me?”

I said: “You cannot offer me marriage, Don Felipe, which could be the only gateway to the path you suggest.”

“Tell me this,” he said, “if I could…”

“But, Don Felipe, you cannot. You have a wife. I know she is mad and no wife to you and that is a grievous state of affairs. I know that Jake Pennlyon was in part responsible. But was he entirely so? How mad was Isabella before she came here? Let me go now. I want to think of what you have said.”

He stood back, but he still held my hands; then he kissed them with a passion unfamiliar to him. I withdrew them and with a wildly beating heart went to my room and shut myself in to think of this revelation.

Don Felipe left next morning. I had spent a disturbed night. That I could consider the possibility of marriage with him seemed absurd. Yet it was not so. He was the father of my beloved child and the child was a bond between us. Roberto was already beginning to show an awareness of him and Don Felipe was always gentle and tender toward him.

It’s ridiculous, I said; but I had to confess that I was intrigued by the situation.

I was a little disappointed to learn that he had left the Hacienda. I was restless and wanted to know more about his feelings for Isabella.

That afternoon, when most people were indulging in the siesta, I left Jennet in charge of the children and wandered off in the direction of Isabella’s house.

The sun was warm; everything seemed sleeping behind the wrought-iron gate; and as I stood there the subject of my thoughts appeared in the doorway. She was carrying the doll I had seen before and as she walked across the patio she saw me. She hesitated. I smiled and she came toward me, murmuring a greeting. I knew enough Spanish now to be able to converse a little, so I replied. She stood looking at me, which gave me an opportunity to study her features. If beauty is perfection of feature, then she was indeed beautiful. Her face was without blemish and without expression; this was indeed a beautiful shell; there was no intellect to give character to the face.