1635: The Papal Stakes

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Captain Castro y Papas knew that Senor Dolor was approaching him from behind, but not because he could hear the man’s boots on the deck. Dolor was, fittingly, as quiet as death, but the sailors working the sails and rigging hushed at his approach. As they always did. Some made warding signs when they thought he wasn’t looking. Castro y Papas was quite sure that Dolor saw it all, and more besides.

“Captain,” said the smaller man as he came to stand beside Don Vincente at the rail.

“Senor,” Castro y Papas acknowledged with as flat a tone as he could manage.

If Dolor noticed, or cared, that the response was markedly unwelcoming, he gave no sign of it. “Have your duties ever brought you to Mallorca before?”

Don Vincente shook his head.

“A pleasant island,” commented Dolor, “and Palma is a handsome city.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Castro y Papas lied. He had been admiring the view as their frigata rode the north Saharan wind known as the Llebeig into Palma’s broad bay. Flanked by eastern beaches on the right, and scrub-covered uplands on the left, their entry brought them abreast of Fort San Carlos, still under construction. Before them lay Palma itself, walls mounting up into an impressive skyline. The immense Gothic cathedral on the east offered its flank squarely to the bay, and pointed toward the rambling Almudaina palace that straddled the midpoint of the walls. The western end of the city seemed to slope down and away from that edifice, which mixed Arab, Spanish, and modern architectural elements into an aesthetic whole that, defying all logic, pleased the eye.

Close against the walls and just back from the shores that ran away to both the east and west city were wide, white arms that waved tirelessly, all doing so at the same speed. Those flanking clusters of well-wishers were windmills, turning in the steady wind that now freshened the ship’s sails and brought them closer to the Moorish pier, reaching out toward them like a weathered gray finger.

Dolor looked up into the cloudless light blue sky. “Odd,” he commented, “that you see no beauty in such a view. I would have thought you a man receptive to the romance of so striking a vista.”

“Perhaps the mood is not upon me just now.”

“Perhaps. At any rate, we are passing your new duty station, Captain.” Dolor pointed to the west shore. Set upon a knoblike hill barely a mile beyond the walls of Palma, a collection of round towers dominated the scrub-mottled uplands that overlooked the bay. “That is the Castell de Bellver. Formerly the palace of the king of Mallorca, it declined to a mere fortress, and now is descending in stature yet again-to that of a prison.”

Don Vincente studied the building that seemed to be perched watchfully over the western approaches to Palma. One tower, noticeably taller and a bit narrower than the other three, pointed like a white finger into the sky.

Dolor must have noticed his companion’s attention to that particular feature. “That is the lazarette. The final bastion of the fortress. Which, I might add, has never been taken by general assault. Nor have any prisoners ever escaped from it.”

Castro y Papas could see why, readily enough. The main body of the fortress seemed to be a squat tower itself, now that he had a closer view of it; it rose only two tall stories above the ravelins and ramparts that had been cut into the hilltop around it. At each true compass point of the circular main walls sat one of the structure’s four towers. The lazarette served as the north pointer, and therefore, sat back somewhat from the bay. With the pennons fluttering from the pinnacles of each tower, it looked much more like a white-pink fairy-tale castle than a prison. Don Vincente felt a tinge of pity for so fine a structure, built as the residence of kings, but now a gaol. “It no longer contributes to the defense of the city?”

Dolor shrugged. “Somewhat. There are cannons in the ramparts about its base and a few still on its roof. But as you can see, its design reflects the wisdom of the ages before cannon. The same is true for the substance of its walls.”

“What do you mean?”

Dolor swept his finger along the rough uplands of the west bank. “You will note all the faint white outcroppings, like stumps of teeth along the ridgelines? All sun-bleached sandstone. From which the Castell de Bellver itself was built, quarried from mines in the very hill upon which it sits.”

Don Vincente nodded. “So, if such soft stone was ever subject to bombardment by modern cannon-”

Dolor shrugged. “It would be a shattered ruin within an hour.”

“How many in its garrison?”

“At last report, approximately fifty within the walls, about that many again manning the ravelins and barbican outside. These will be increased now, of course. Although that change will not be welcome to the Castell’s governor.”

“Governor? Not commander?”

“No. Bellver’s situation is unique.” Dolor’s lip quirked in what might have been dark humor or genuine annoyance. “Sometime in the fifteenth century, it became the possession of the Carthusian Monks of Valdemossa. Although it is not staffed by them, they assign the Castell its governor, who has control over the garrison.”

The way Dolor had put emphasis on the word “garrison” prompted Don Vincente’s next question. “The garrison is not very proficient?”

Dolor shrugged. “It is staffed almost completely by Mallorcans. Yes, they are technically soldiers of the Crown, but almost none of them have ever left the island, or been trained and blooded with a real tercio. They are local soldiery. Mostly trustworthy, but not very dependable in a fight, I’m afraid.”

“Hence, your resolve to increase the contingent there.”

“Yes. By drawing troops from the garrison at San Carlos. Only twenty or so, but that will not please the governor. Not at all.”

“I would have expected that he would have seen a larger detachment as an honor, a signification of greater authority.”

“No, because the new troops will not be under his command. They will be on detached duty to the Castell, and under your direct authority.”

“You put me in a most enviable position, Senor Dolor.”

“I do what is necessary, as shall you. You will use the real soldiery from the fort to improve the readiness of Bellver’s current garrison. Your men will train with, and provide examples for, the governor’s.”

“In theory.”

“It is your responsibility to make this theory a reality, and quickly, Captain Castro y Papas. If agents of the USE plan on striking again, they will do so with all alacrity; if they wait much longer, they will be endangering the pregnancy of Stone’s wife.” Dolor moved away from the rail.

“And you, Senor Dolor? Where will you be?”

Dolor stopped and turned to look at the captain. “Wherever I am most needed. I will be at the Castell intermittently. If I am not there, my assistant, Dakis, is likely to be. But I cannot gather and oversee intelligence reports in a hilltop fortress two miles southwest of the viceroy’s palace; I must be where ships and roads bring messages. So I will mostly be in Palma.”

“How pleasant.”

Dolor’s eyes held no hint of present or past emotions; Don Vincente believed it conceivable the man had never had any. “I do not tarry in Palma because it is pleasant; I do so because I have only a month to put things in order here. My instructions are to see to the proper incarceration and security of the prisoners and then return to Rome.”

“And who will be placed in charge of the situation upon your departure?”

“You, Don Castro y Papas, if you prove reliable and motivated enough. If not, I am sure that some mud-caked, understaffed tercio guarding one of the Holy Roman Empire’s surrounded Rhine principalities that could make fine use of your skills.”

Dolor turned and moved unhurriedly toward the pinnace that was being readied for the first shore party. Don Vincente glared after him.

He almost missed the faint movement sidling up to his right. “What is it, Ezquerra?” asked the captain without bothering to look over. “Have you come to complain of another bout of seasickness?”

The career sergeant shrugged. “I cannot tell if it is seasickness, or simple nausea from being too close to Dolor.”

“The man is discomfiting, no question.”

“He is abnormal in every particular, Captain-which I can say without fear of punishment in his case, since he holds no military rank.”

Don Vincente looked after the black silhouette of Dolor. “Do not assume too much about Senor Dolor, Ezquerra-particularly regarding his ability to do you ill. He may not hold any official rank, he may be abnormal, annoying, and yes, even revolting, but bear this in mind: he is dangerous.” Captain Vincente Jose-Maria de Castro y Papas studied the silhouette’s easy, economical motions carefully. “Very dangerous.”

Frank felt as much as heard the portcullis ram home behind him; it jarred the stones under his feet.

Or, to be more accurate, it jarred the finely cut pink sandstone paving that was arrayed not in a typically crude grid fashion, but in a pattern of faint yet perfect concentric rings. The circular motif was reprised in the almost delicate arches that marked the inner orbit of the stacked, porticoed galleries. Frank stared up through the identical levels, finding them both familiar and alien-and then he knew why: it reminded him of the leaning tower of Pisa, except inside out. And a lot wider. And more squat. But still “Senor and Senora Stone, you will come this way.”

The sergeant who had spoken to them was a grizzled fellow, at least fifty, and well-scarred. He was as different from the young, diffident gate guards as a mastiff was distinct from dachshunds. He also seemed very annoyed.

Which annoyed Frank, in turn. “Hey, sorry I’m not moving fast enough for you, Sergeant Rock, but getting repeatedly blasted and beaten by you and your buddies hasn’t done a lot for my basic fitness level.”

The sergeant studied Frank’s slight limp. “You will live. Now hurry, or I will have to report your lack of compliance to my superior.”

“You mean, the governor?”

“No, Senor Stone. I am not one of the regular guards at Castell de Bellver.” Sergeant Rock looked like he had wanted to spit when he uttered the words “regular guards.” “I am Sergeant Alarico Garza, here from His Majesty’s Fort San Carlos, and I now report to Captain Vincente Jose-Maria de Castro y Papas. With whom, I am told, you have some acquaintance.”

“Yeah, you could say that.”

Garza frowned. “You are not fond of the captain? I was told that you were on friendly terms.”

“Oh, yeah; he’s a great friend. Best guy to have around if you’re hoping to be betrayed, ambushed, or knocked around. And tell him that if he gets anywhere near me again, I just might have to give his fist another beating with my face.”

For a moment, Sergeant Rock was puzzled; then, with great effort, he stifled a grin. Then he simply extended a guiding hand toward the stairway to the second tier gallery.

As Frank hobbled up the stairs, the sergeant hung farther back, giving the couple some room and time to inspect their surroundings.

Which were, frankly, an architectural marvel of extraordinary grace and beauty. When they reached the top step and came out into the open air so that their voices would not echo back to the sergeant, Giovanna grasped Frank’s arm a little tighter. “Frank, it is not wise to speak ill of Captain Castro y Papas.”

“Why? Because he might beat me up? Oh, wait a minute. He already did that. And for no reason.”

“Frank,” hissed Giovanna. “I have not seen you so stubborn. Can you not believe what I told you about Castro y Papas?”

“You expect me to believe he was doing me a favor when he beat the crap out of me?”

She sighed. “Frank, one of the reasons I love you is that you are so good a man, you do not readily see or understand the evil that runs deep in so many others.” She looked at him squarely, making sure they were still far enough ahead of the sergeant to be beyond earshot. “Captain Castro y Papas beat you because if he didn’t, someone else would have. Maybe one of the new guards brought by that vile little hyena, Dakis. Or maybe Dakis was hoping to do it himself; he looks the type. And of this you may be assured, dear Frank: had one of them beaten you, the injuries you have been affecting since Rome would be quite genuine.”

The sergeant called their attention to another staircase leading up. As they began ascending it, Frank let his head droop as he considered Gia’s arguments. When they reached the roof-a broad, ringlike expanse that sprouted towers from each compass point-he looked at her. “You really think that’s what was going on? That he had no choice?”

Up here, the wind blew fresh from the bay; his wife’s fine, lustrous hair caught it and flew up like shining raven wings. “Oh, the captain had a choice, husband. I suspect he would have been allowed to wash his hands of the indignity of what he was instructed to do. But then he could not have protected you, Frank. I tell you this not because I have changed my opinion of Castro y Papas-I have not-but because you are my husband and I will not lie to you: he may be our enemy, but I must concede that, in this, he was being your friend. As strange as that might seem.”

“Well, yeah-it seems pretty strange,” Frank agreed as he considered the architecture of the Castell from top to bottom. “I hate to say it, Gia, but it’s kind of hard to see anyone breaking us out of here. Not even Harry could pull that off.”

She nodded. “It is a strong fortress.”

Frank assessed the defenses, feeling like he was living a lost chapter from The Lord of the Rings. “A hilltop location that you can only reach by an overgrown goat-trail. An outlying perimeter of ravelins and an outer gate house, all set well away from other habitations. A dry moat around the Castell itself, with a drawbridge and portcullis.”

Gia frowned. “Yes, as I said, a strong fortress-but not impregnable. The cart-driver told us that during the peasant revolt last century, the rebels took the whole Castell-including the lazarette.”

“Yeah, but why? Because they had someone on the inside. And those rebels had a much easier job than a bunch of rescuers will.”

“Why? Because there were so many more of the rebels?”

“Well, that too. But the real difference is in timing, Gia.”

She frowned.

Frank pointed to the outer gatehouse, then the barbican, then the drawbridge, then the portcullis, then the single narrow staircases that provided sole access to each successive level. “Look at all those different chokepoints. Each one is going to cost rescuers time and bodies. And generally, if you need to go quickly, you lose more bodies. But however fast they go, Gia, they won’t be able to get to us before our jailors do. So what does the endgame look like?”

She nodded. “The last of the rescuers break through the final barrier and find us held by the Spanish, with cocked guns at our heads.”

“Exactly. A hopeless standoff. The rescuers can’t move without destroying the very people they came to rescue. And by that time, other Spanish forces will be inbound, cutting off any chance of retreat.” He shook his head. “There may be no getting out of here, Gia.” He took her hands. “I’m sorry I got you into all this. I never expected-”

“You will be silent, Frank Stone, before you say anything more profoundly stupid than you already have. I am here because I love you, and if asked to choose my future a thousand times over, each time, I would choose this one I share with you. So, that is settled. All that remains is for you to get to work.”

“To work?”

“On your book, Frank. Just because you are imprisoned does not mean you cannot fight back; indeed, this is when it is most important to do so. And in you, beloved husband, I have seen the promise that indeed, the pen will be far mightier than the sword. Have you made any progress with the book?”

“Well, some.”

“Must I guess, or will you deign to tell me?”

“Sure. It’s just that I’m-well, I’m kind of embarrassed. I’m not really a writer, you know-”

“Frank, any one is a writer who chooses to be. To be a good writer, well, that is a different matter. But if you can simply write as you speak, you will be a good writer. Possibly much more than merely good. But tell me: what idea has been emerging?”

“Well, its kind of a parody and an homage all in one.”

“Good, good: a work with many layers, with allusion to other masterpieces.”

“Uh…yeah. And it’s set in a time of warfare and struggle between good and evil.”

“Excellent. It is a heroic tale, borrowing its scope from the Greeks and Romans. And the main characters? Who are they?”

“Well…they’re hobbits.”

Gia blinked, then frowned. “They are who?”

“Not who: what. They’re hobbits. They’re kind of little people with hairy feet who live in holes in the ground and…” He saw her look. “You don’t like it.”

Gia floundered for a reply. “Well…it is not Homer or Virgil,” she stuttered lamely.

“No. But, well, now that I think of it, yeah, it is. Kind of. See, these hobbits are part of a long saga called The Lord of the Rings. It’s filled with noble lords and ancient demons and all that kind of stuff, but the real heroes are the hobbits because-well, because they’re just the little people who live through war. Like all us little people who have to figure out ways to survive, but also keep goodness alive in our hearts, while the world around us is plunged into war, and dominated by evil.”

Gia’s smile had returned; it was now wider than ever. “My genius Frank; a book for the working classes. And one which will brighten the eyes of children, even as it calls forth tears of sorrow and fellow-feeling from strong men with great hearts.” She flung her arms around his neck. “My genius. And look what you have for your daily inspiration: look!” She pointed out over the eastern ramparts where they had come to stand.

For a moment, they forgot the perils and uncertainties of their existence as prisoners. Gulls wheeled about the blue dome of the sky; upon the glimmering bay, lateen-rigged boats-tiny at this distance-scudded to and from, milling about the skirts of the ochre-stoned edifices with which Palma faced the sea. From this height, and distance, any blemishes were invisible: the world was a panorama of story-book perfection.

“Wow,” said Frank after a full minute.

“ Bella, ” breathed Giovanna.

“Come,” said Sergeant Rock, behind them.

They turned; he pointed over a walled walkway to the northernmost tower, a thinner spire that rose up three stories above the roof, two above the tops of the other towers. “Your room is there, in the lazarette. You will be pleased to know that it was once the bedchamber of the kings of Mallorca.”

“And what became of the kings of Mallorca?” asked Frank.

“They resisted the dominion of Madrid; they are no more.”

“Sounds like a warning, not a history lesson.”

The sergeant shrugged. “You may consider it to be both. You will come. Now.”