14
War
What I found instead was trouble. Dressed in a pink gown with a tight bodice that disappeared below her waist in a cascade of frills, Rosa was standing at the end of the corridor. I moved back in haste, trying to blend in the shadows. But it was too late. A smile dancing on her perfectly made-up face, Rosa came toward me. War or no war, she had kept her priorities straight, and as usual, she was stunning.
“I am so glad to see you, dear sister,” she said, almost singing, “looking so well and healthy. Please, tell me you are not mad at me. I couldn’t bear the idea of anybody being upset when I am so very happy.”
She said this as if nothing had happened since the last time we had seen each other. As if she had not stolen my boyfriend in the meantime. Well, my boyfriend-to-be more exactly. And what a nerve she had to ask me whether I was upset. I was not upset. I was way past upset. I was furious. I wanted to grab her naked shoulders and shake her until she asked my forgiveness. But that would only prove I still cared about John, and I was not going to give her that pleasure. My sister, who knew as much about decency as a hungry wolf knew about mercy, would be thrilled to use that knowledge to hurt me further.
I smiled. “Of course I’m not mad at you, dear. Not at all. Don’t you know I only live to make you happy?”
Rosa eyed me suspiciously. “Really?”
“But you see, Rosa, if there is a war, Don Juan could die. And that would be most unpleasant for you. So why don’t you try to do something to help him?”
“Oh, but I am! I’m embroidering a beautiful scarf for Don Juan to wear in battle as a token of my love.”
“Your Don Juan is going to need more than a scarf to stay alive.”
“Why do you always have to be so nasty?”
“Come on, Rosa, wake up! This has nothing to do with me. Don Juan will be in mortal danger if he goes into battle. And you may be the only one who can stop this war.”
“Stop the war? Why should I do that? You know what I think, Andrea? I think you are jealous because they are fighting over me. That is why you say such horrible things. Nothing will happen to Don Juan. He is the greatest warrior of all.”
“Not the last time I checked.”
“How would you know, anyway? All these days you have been hidden in your room like a scared rabbit, Don Juan has been training and—”
“Where?”
Rosa stared blankly at me.
“Where does Don Juan train?”
“Outside in the fields by the river. Why?”
“Never mind, dear. Just get back to your scarf.”
I left her there, a startled look in her pale blue eyes, and dove down the stairs two steps at a time. I couldn’t get away from her fast enough. She certainly had an empty shell for a head, this sister of mine. What in the world does John see in her? I wondered. Apart from the obvious, of course. But was he really so stupid that he couldn’t see beyond her looks?
Picking up the skirts of my gown over my knees, I ran faster and faster, down the spiral stairway to the bottom of the tower, and jerking the door open, I stepped outside. Then, a strangled cry on my throat, I stumbled back.
Neither Tio’s angry words nor Rosa’s smug self-complacency had prepared me for this. Like mushrooms after the rain, a multitude of workshops had sprouted during the days I had kept to my room and now covered the totality of the bailey. Apart from the usual shops of the shoemakers and dressmakers, carpenters and candlers, there were others in which the atilliators were making crossbows, and the mail artisans were skillfully inserting rings into rows—shops that clearly spoke of war.
From the blacksmith shop at the end of the stables came the deafening clank of iron on iron. I didn’t need to go there to know that not only horseshoes, but arrowheads, swords, and mail rings were the product of the ceaseless hammering.
And as I stared into the courtyard, blinking in the bright light of midmorning, the reality of the upcoming war sank in. I shivered. Tío was right: John had to go back to California before he got himself killed. Again I dashed forward, fighting my way through men and tents, reaching the inner courtyard. The town gate, the closest exit to the river, was at the other end.
But getting there was not so simple. A continuous stream of carts with grain and vegetables, fruits and poultry was pouring into the castle, blocking my advance. My back to the wall to avoid being crushed under their wheels, I climbed into the first empty wagon I saw heading toward the village and waited, hidden under the canvas, until we had crossed the drawbridge. Then, bending my knees, I jumped far and high onto the tall grass that flanked the road.
Nursing a bruised elbow, I ran down toward the river, guided by the clink of metal on metal and the sharp cries of the warriors. But when the training fields finally came into view, my doubts returned. Swords and shields flashing in the sun, men were fighting for as far as I could see. How was I supposed to locate John among them?
I was about to give up and wait for John to return to the castle, when a solitary couple farther down by the bank caught my attention. One of the men was Don Gonzalo, my former instructor—I recognized him by the crossed spears of his coat of arms embroidered on the front of his tunic. His opponent was tall and slim, and although he was simply dressed in the blue-and-white colors of my kingdom, a deep void in my stomach told me it was John.
Edging my way among the fighters, I moved closer. John had improved since the last time I had seen him. But still, I realized with a pang of fear, he was no match for Don Gonzalo. As the fight was going, I was sure it wouldn’t last much longer. John was hardly stopping the blows. And yet the fight went on. Don Gonzalo was making impossible mistakes and eventually lost his sword. John raised his arm, and in a flash of metal, his blade rested on his opponent’s chest.
I stepped forward as they bowed to each other and called his name. John looked up and smiled at me, the same disarming smile with which he had welcomed me into his world. “Buenos días, Princesa,” he said. And a sharp pain inside my chest left me no doubt—his magic was still working on me.
“I love these fights,” John said after Don Gonzalo had left. “They’re so totally unreal.”
Unreal? Does he still believe our world is a pyrotechnical gimmick? I wondered while John, oblivious to my worries, returned his sword to its scabbard. The precision and dexterity of his movements told me better than any words could, he was not going to be easy to convince.
“John, there’s something we have to discuss.”
Again John stared at me, and as I stared back into his eyes, bright with victory and brown like honey, I forgot my speech.
John shrugged. “I’m listening.”
“Right. What I want to say is that this world is not a quaint recreation of your imagination. It is real, as real as California. And you don’t belong in it. Your coming here was a mistake. My mistake. And that is why it is up to me to take you back.”
John laughed. “Of course. I’ll go back, Andrea, don’t you worry. Just as soon as the war is over.”
“No, John. Not after the war is over. You have to leave now, before it starts. Don’t you see the war is happening because of you, because you took Rosa from Don Julián? If you leave and Rosa apologizes to Don Julián, there will be no war. But if you refuse to go, many will die. And it would be your fault. And mine.”
“I can’t leave now! I can’t leave Princess Rosa. I’m a gentleman, and—”
“A gentleman? Come on, John, cut it out. You’re not even from this world.”
John’s face turned red and his hand moved toward his scabbard. I jumped forward and, grabbing his arm, jerked it away from the sword.