The Spaniard's Innocent Maiden

Yes, Tula loved the dark, for lying to her father was much easier in it.

Chapter Two (#ulink_4e4055b0-2cf0-58de-b44e-110b4e8b1775)

Benicio lay on the scorched maize field, covered in blood. He stared up at the pale blue sky, trying to picture the stars. He had come to the Island of the Yucatan to take part in trade, not war. He had brought glass beads and fine mirrors and the hope that he might still fulfil the promise he had made to Luisa that day two long years ago: to find treasure.

Now a thousand Maya warriors lay all around him, slaughtered. They had not been his enemies. They had merely been defending their lands from men like him—strange, bearded thieves who had floated upriver on their temples of deceit.

That was what the Maya emissaries had called the Spanish brigantines—floating temples. They did not have a word for sailing ships in their language, nor did they have a word for the Spaniards themselves, so they called them bearded gods. If they had only known that Captain Cortés and his men were much more like bearded devils.

Benicio pulled off his helmet and unbuckled his chest plate. It had been so very hot inside his shell of steel, even in the depths of the night. It was a relief to finally be free of it. Above, the first rays of sun stretched into the sky, illuminating the gory scene. Not a single body stirred.

The Maya of the city of Potonchan had politely asked Cortés to leave, but El Capitán would not listen. Instead, he had told the Maya emissaries the same thing he had told Benicio and his five hundred other conscripts as they set out from Cuba: that they were on a mission of trade and discovery.

Benicio should have known better than to believe the bellicose Captain Cortés, who had filled their ships with more gunpowder than goods. Even the small brigantine for which Benicio served as navigator had been fitted with deadly falconets, though Benicio had managed not to notice them.

Nor did he bother to translate the banner that flew atop Cortés’s flagship, though he had spent years studying Latin: Amici, sequamur crucem et, si nos fidem habemus, vere in hoc signo vincemus. Friends, let us follow the cross and, if we have faith, let us conquer under this banner.

Benicio had ignored all of it. He was willing to overlook anything, it seemed, for the hope of finding gold. ‘Gold is nothing to the naturales of Yucatan Island,’ Cortés had assured his conscripts. ‘They trade it for beads and trinkets. It will be no effort for each of us to obtain a treasure fit for a king.’

Or a marquesa, Benicio had thought.

Had hoped.

What Cortés had not mentioned was that when the beads and trinkets failed, the men would have to fight. And kill.

The flies were descending in droves, creating a black frenzy of movement above the once-verdant field of maize. Benicio knew that the remaining Maya soldiers would soon arrive to collect their dead. When they did, they would discover Benicio and kill him. If not, the desiccating heat of the sun eventually would.

It would be a fitting end. The sun, which Benicio had so ardently believed to be the centre of the universe, would finally snuff out his life. He had been so very proud of all his book-learned knowledge, yet so very naive. To think he could simply sail to this new world, extract his treasure, and return to wed the woman he loved. That it would be that easy. That there would be no cost.

He pictured Luisa’s face, as he always did when his heart filled with despair. Round cheeks. Dancing curls. Dimples. She remained in his memory exactly as she had been that day in the Plaza del Triunfo, her sparkling green eyes gazing up at him in admiration, as if she beheld some errant knight.

Forgive me, Luisa. I have failed you. He closed his eyes and waited for his death to come.

But instead of death came the sound of rioting birds and a familiar voice tumbling across the field. ‘Stop, savage! Give it to me!’

Benicio sat up to behold a vision of feathers and light. The mid-morning sun was shining behind the figure of a giant bird. The bird flapped its massive wings, but it did not fly. Instead, it ran towards Benicio at great speed.

Benicio blinked, realising that he beheld not a bird, but a man covered in feathers. They wrapped around him like a heavy cloak, slowing him as he attempted to escape his pursuer.

‘Give me the ring!’ the voice shouted behind the man and Benicio lay back, playing dead. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a large Spaniard throw off his breastplates and overtake the feathered warrior, pinning him to the ground near Benicio.

The Spaniard cursed and spat, unsheathing his hand blade. ‘Give it to me!’ he commanded. ‘Or I will take another finger!’ The feathered warrior babbled helplessly in his language, covering his face with bloody hands. The Spaniard threw off his steel helmet in frustration, revealing a shock of red hair and a face so familiar that Benicio gasped.

It was none other than Rogelio—the young man Benicio had met that day in the Plaza del Triunfo. They had crossed the ocean together in the company of Captain Pinzón, but when they had reached the Island of Hispañola, they had parted ways. Benicio had not seen the lithe, handsome papaya pedlar since.

Now Rogelio was no longer lithe, nor in any way handsome. A ghastly red scar traversed his haggard face and Benicio could see that he had grown corpulent and soft beneath the Toledo steel that protected him.

Rogelio held the Maya man’s bloody hand upon the ground, threatening to sever another finger. Had Rogelio lost his mind? Benicio crawled closer.

The Maya man was painted from head to toe in thick stripes of ochre and white. There were grey hairs sprouting from beneath his headdress and skin hung loosely from his bones. Benicio guessed he was a religious figure—perhaps some kind of priest. His strange, plaintive speech was incomprehensible, but it was clear he was begging for mercy.

‘Where is it?’ Rogelio shouted and dealt the old man a blow to the face. The man fell backwards and Rogelio ripped what appeared to be a golden necklace from his neck. ‘Where is the ring?’ Rogelio raised his blade squarely over the man’s heart.

‘Stop!’ Benicio cried. He dived at Rogelio from behind and thrust him upon the ground. ‘Have mercy, Rogelio. The battle is over.’

Benicio rolled Rogelio on to his back, keeping him pinned. Rogelio smiled at Benicio in a moment of recognition. ‘Yes, Brother, and now it is time for plunder,’ he said. He thrust his knee upwards, sending a gut-splitting blow through Benicio’s loins.

In the meantime, the priest had staggered to his feet and was attempting to run away. Rogelio lunged and caught him, slashing a blade across the priest’s chest and wrestling him to the ground.

Recovering his senses, Benicio pulled Rogelio off the injured priest once again. ‘Cease!’ Benicio commanded and he smashed his head against Rogelio’s, knocking him senseless. He thrust Rogelio’s heavy body to the side.

The priest was writhing on the ground, trying to sit up. The gash that Rogelio had drawn across the holy man’s body had reached the base of his throat, and blood spilled on to his painted chest.

Benicio searched for something to stop the flow of blood, seizing upon a large piece of cloth hanging from Rogelio’s belt. Benicio folded the cloth and moved to place it upon the wound, but the priest flinched and tried to move himself away.

‘Ma tu’ub,’ he coughed, pointing to the cloth and shaking his head in warning. ‘Ma tu’ub.’

He seemed strangely concerned with the cloth Benicio had taken, so Benicio set it aside and ripped off his own shirt sleeve. The priest made no protest as Benicio helped him to a sitting position, then stuffed the ripped sleeve into his wound, trying to stop the bleeding. Benicio ripped his other sleeve and tied it around the priest’s neck, securing the first cloth in place. Still, the bleeding would not stop.

‘Be at peace, Father,’ Benicio said soothingly, for he feared the old man did not have long. The priest peered at the ground where the first bloody cloth lay. Benicio shook the cloth clean, then opened it to reveal a strange geometrical design traced in blood.

‘Ma tu’ub,’ the priest repeated, nodding at the cloth. He pointed at the centre dot with the stub of his finger, then cringed with pain and returned the bloody limb to his fist. He nodded coaxingly at Benicio. ‘Ma tu’ub.’

Benicio nodded worriedly, placing the cloth to the side. He arranged the man’s headdress beneath him and smoothed its feathers, fanning them outward in a halo of green, red, and white. Then he helped the old man backwards, wedging a clod of grass beneath his head like a pillow. ‘Rest now, holy soul,’ Benicio whispered.

A look of soft gratitude came over the priest’s weathered face. He nodded at Benicio again, then opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue. Upon it Benicio beheld the largest, most beautiful ring he had ever seen.

Benicio stared at the sparkling jewel in amazement—a thick, round jadestone surrounded by many large diamonds.

The holy man plucked the ring from his tongue and held it out to Benicio, urging him to take it. ‘Ma tu’ub.’

Benicio folded his hand over the priest’s. Certainly the old man had lost his wits. ‘Ma tu’ub,’ the priest muttered a final time, and the life went out of him. The ring tumbled to the ground.

‘Ma tu’ub, holy one,’ Benicio repeated. ‘Ma tu’ub.’

The morning sun passed behind a cloud and the cacophony of birds ceased. All the world went still and Benicio had the overwhelming sensation that it had just lost an important soul. He placed the priest’s arms across his chest and closed his eyelids. For some unknown reason, Benicio was overcome with grief.

Benicio reached for the cloth lying at his feet and studied its strange design: a diamond with circles around each of its four points. In the centre of the diamond was a small dot the size of a man’s fingertip. Benicio pictured the priest pressing his bloody finger on that spot, fearing for his life, while Rogelio threatened to take another finger. But why? What important thing did this cluster of shapes represent?

Perhaps it was some kind of map. Some of Cortés’s men whispered of a city of gold hidden deep in the jungle. Benicio had always believed the rumours to be nonsense—the wishful thinking of desperate men. Still, the priest had pointed at the map, then urged Benicio to take the golden ring.

The golden ring! Benicio stuffed the cloth into the side of his boot and spotted the shiny object where the priest had dropped it on to the ground.

He grasped the ring and studied it in his palm. No wonder Rogelio had pursued the priest so relentlessly. The figure of a feathered dragon, wrought in gold, overlaid the jadestone’s polished façade. The detail of the figure was beyond anything Benicio had ever seen and he wondered if some unknown god had not fashioned it.

But it was not the detail that made Benicio’s heart begin to race, it was the dozen large diamonds that lined the ring’s perimeter, framing the golden dragon in a glitter of light. The diamonds were larger than any single diamond Benicio had ever seen. He knew that he held a treasure truly fit for a king.

A sneaking joy bubbled within him. He could not believe his good fortune. He swelled inside as he imagined returning to Spain and presenting the prize to King Charles himself.