“Yes. But where is the problem in that? We trade regularly with our foes. For instance, in the Low Countries-”
“Yes, I am quite acquainted with the peculiarities of that situation.” Dolor held up his hand. “I leave this in your hands then, Captain. Governor Morales y Llaguno, you are to admit the xueta physician, and, presuming he will accept it, you are to offer him the commission at the full rate we discussed.”
“Very well. But I do not like this. And I will have my men-my own men-present at all times. Even when the woman is giving birth.”
“Of course. And I’m sure Captain Castro y Papas intends to have his own contingent present, as well.”
“Yes,” said Don Sancho, “so one would hope.” His expression changed. “I can only hope that Don Vincente’s conjecture is correct-that touching a Gentile woman will repel the old Jew. I will take steps to make sure that he must admit-in the presence of witnesses-that this signifies a further and final proof of his renunciation of Judaism: to touch, in an intimate fashion, a woman who is not of his race.” His smile became smug. “And how delicious that, in so doing, he will simultaneously be degrading the little Italian she-goat.”
Dolor rose, turned his back on Don Sancho, did not note if the man bade him a respectful farewell or not. All he could think was: what a repulsive little swine.
Dolor passed out through the portcullis, earning respectful nods from the soldiers from Fort San Carlos and averted eyes from the Castell’s regular guard contingent. As he left the shadows and strode into the midday glare, a figure emerged from the bright, sun-dappling dust that had been kicked up by the xueta physician’s donkeys. It was a representative from the viceroy’s legal office, who doffed his hat and offered a prim bow.
“Yes?” Dolor did not even break his stride.
“A most unusual communication came to the viceroy this morning by way of the weekly packet from Rome, Senor Dolor.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. It seems that a message arrived for you in Rome some weeks ago and has just caught up with you now.”
“Oh? And from whom does the message come?”
The representative stood a little straighter. “No less a personage than the count-duke Olivares himself.” The obsequious functionary smiled knowingly. “However, it seems to have met with impediments in Rome, delayed by inefficient bureaucrats, no doubt.”
You mean, by people like yourself? But Dolor only nodded. The delay was not surprising. Borja would not know what to do with a private communique from Olivares to his own spymaster, particularly if it arrived without any communication to Borja himself. The pope-intendant certainly understood that his actions in Italy had aroused royal displeasure in Madrid, thereby costing him what few friends he had there. The preference-and greater trust-implied by a private communication to Dolor would have left Borja in a dither of uncertainty and anxiety. Unable to safely open the letter himself, but unwilling to let it slip out of his fingers, the cardinal had probably sat on the missive, hoping for some small sign as to its import. But when none had arisen, he had had little choice but to send it to Palma-by the slowest boat available, apparently.
The viceroy’s representative cleared his throat histrionically. “Naturally, the viceroy would like to be on hand when you open the letter, since it may have news of import to him as well-news he would like to hear immediately.”
Rubbish. The viceroy is simply a nosy old cretin, wringing his hands, wondering why he doesn’t get the favor of communications from the high and mighty any more. But Dolor said “I will accompany you to the Almudaina immediately. I presume you have a carriage at the bottom of the hill?”
The representative bowed with a foppish flourish. “And a litter to convey us from this height hence.”
“Lead,” nodded Dolor in the direction of Bellver’s outer gatehouse and began contemplating how to turn Olivares’ gesture of comparatively overt favor into an exchange that could be parlayed into another personal meeting. Face-to-face contact would be the only truly safe-and effective-conditions under which he might reveal to the count-duke that he, Pedro Dolor, had possession of what had now been positively identified as the body of Lord John O’Neill, last earl of Tyrone, vassal of Philip, and traitorously fallen aiding the up-timers in Rome.
“Must they stay?” David Asher’s tone was rough with age and annoyance. His glare was almost as damning as Giovanna’s. Frank kept his arms folded, watching, terribly uncertain how to feel about the man who had entered the room at the head of four men-at-arms.
Captain de Castro y Papas bowed apologetically. “Doctor, Senora Stone, my apologies, but yes, they must stay. The governor insisted upon having his own men here. It seemed prudent-for a variety of reasons-that I should have an equal number of my own personnel present.”
“Might as well sell tickets,” grumbled Asher as he washed his hands in a bowl of water and ethanol, held by the smaller of his two assistants.
“Again, my apologies. I must leave them here, but I do not need to magnify the offense with my presence; I shall depart at once.”
“Great,” growled Asher. “We lose the only one with manners. Now, Senora Stone, try not to pay attention to the four men in the room.”
“There are four men in here? I see only dogs.”
Asher barked out a laugh. “You I will be happy to treat. What about your husband? Has he a tongue?”
“I do,” said Frank.
Asher looked up, eyes narrowed but still surprised. “Huh. Some tone of gratitude from the nervous husband.”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Asher. I have unfinished business with him.”
“Who? The big hidalgo who just left? Take a word of advice, young man; leave that unfinished business unfinished, or he might finish you.”
“It’s not that kind of business. At least I don’t think so.”
Asher made a gruff noise as he testily rearranged the sheets his larger assistant had propped up to form a privacy blind. “Now I’ll need you to relax, Senora Stone-and with your permission, I’ll-”
“You have my permission, now and in all future times. You are a physician; I am your patient. If others imagine anything else, that is a product of their own backward low-mindedness.”
Despite himself, Asher smiled. “I’m surprised your husband had the courage to marry you, Senora.”
“So am I,” admitted Frank. Then, seeing Giovanna’s look, he amended, “I mean, she was so beautiful, I didn’t think I’d have the nerve to ask her if-”
“Ah,” interrupted Asher, who was evidently no longer paying attention to Frank. “It is just as your first doctor, the famous Sharon Nichols, suspected: there are at least twins. Maybe triplets.”
Frank frowned. “No. Sharon said-”
“Yes, yes,” grumbled Asher, “I know she believed it very unlikely that there were three fetuses, but I am telling you I disagree. And with your wife this much further along in the pregnancy, it becomes easier to discern them.” He looked up hard at Frank. “So do not disagree with me, young man. When I say there are three here who will have to be brought out to safety, I know exactly what I am talking about.”
Frank looked at the old xueta ’s eyes, saw them flash-right before the one facing away from the four guards in the room winked.
“Yes,” said the doctor slowly, clearly, “it appears that there are three Stones who will have to brought out to safety. And probably sooner than any of us thought.”
Giovanna sat upright and looked at Frank, eyes wide. Who got it now.
“Oh,” he said to Asher, nodding. And keeping any hint of a smile off his face.
Captain Castro y Papas drifted in the direction of the impromptu mess that had been set up on the second gallery level of the Castell; the kitchen proper, having failed an inspection, was being thoroughly scoured. Approaching the cook laboring red-faced and sweaty over boiling pots and a field stove, Don Vincente had a sudden, almost nostalgic pang of recollection to his earliest years as a soldier-and then that moment of comparative innocence was shattered.