Caribbean Reign Ch. 11-12

Chapter 11: Dueling Arrangements - Rafael's Perspective

There is no way that Ana is a mere lady's maid. Imperfectly but classically trained, she pounces on me with reckless abandon. She brandishes a knotted fist behind her skirts, trying to restrain her toothy aggression.

I toss in a few parries but mostly study her expression. As she chases me, her lips compress under a line of white teeth.

It took her a few days to get her sea legs back, but now I am fencing her quite seriously, even sneaking in a strained breath here and there. She is quick. She darts in and out of the distance between us. However, I can easily overcome her scampering with simple observations. She doesn't always look where she steps. Her overplanning often circles her into a trap.

Still, a fire smolders behind those eyes. I saw it when she was tossed in front of me during the public audience. It burns brightly as she charges at me with only the smallest chance of victory. An inner creed of determination. A woman who acts as if she'll be damned if she leaves anything to chance.

In the typical French style, Ana thrusts constantly. There are many times where a more defensive strategy would serve her better, but the stabbing keeps her tip a constant threat. Finally, I gain the upper hand. A quick strike as she advances. Her blade falls to the floor with a satisfying clatter.

"Again," I demand.

Ana wipes her palms on her dress. Mother's old tea gown suits her much better than the rags she was initially given. The pale blue contrasts nicely with the chestnut waves that fall beneath her shoulders. The dress was Isabel's idea. I made her promise never to reveal its previous owner. I know that Ana would find a way to turn it against me.

"Don't you have people's lives to ruin?" she says with exasperation.

As much as she's been enjoying our time together, my training does ask a lot of a woman with such a delicate constitution. I've tried to coach her through the blisters. I am greatly enjoying my return to swordsmanship, and I'm sure that her participation is preferable to cleaning floors. If nothing else, Ana understands an ultimatum. If I spar her enough, I might finally figure her out.

Ana picks up her weapon and levels it at me.

Amidst her discordant breathing, she leaps into that obnoxious French en garde, wrists limped, and hips cocked. It's adorable when she does it but ridiculous, nonetheless. I rub my temple; that's exactly my point. No one would have come up with something so impractical on their own. It's a position that has to be taught. And as far as I know, orphan girls don't have fencing masters.

"I'll make you a deal," I say, extending my weapon. "Answer my questions truthfully, and I'll forfeit the bout."

She looks uneasy for a moment. While neither of us expects the truth, I'd rather sort through lies than leave it all up to the imagination.

She bows her head, "At your pleasure, Excellency."

I keep my forearm low. The thick, meaty target peeks over the metal guard. It's an obvious trap that she'll have to respond to.

I study her face, her high cheekbones and fair skin. Ana has a unique look, but she's still a classic example of the French aristocracy. I simply do not believe Ana is low-born enough to steal baubles from a market. Perhaps her father is a drunkard who has gambled away the family fortune.

"Tell me about your father," I say.

She stares quizzically and then threatens my arm as expected.

"My father is a good man. He's still alive if that's what you're asking."

"That's not what I'm asking," I reply, though I welcome the additional information.

"Then, there isn't much to say. My mother made all the decisions regarding how I was raised, and my father manages all that does not interest her. He's a quiet man. Protective. Strong. He would never let anything happen to his family."

Ana slips a quick thrust in at the end of her speech.

I easily dodge.

She seems sincere, and the description is vague enough to be true. I couldn't imagine Ana allowing her husband to cast his dominion over her affairs. Her mother seems to be made of the same material. It does cast doubt over my squandered fortune theory; a woman like that would never let her husband run through the family coffers, drinking and playing cards.

Her weapon taps the inside of my wrist. Mine skims her shoulder.

"Have you ever been engaged?" I say.

At this, she pauses, allowing her guard position to drop. I believe I've hit a nerve.

"How is that any business of yours?"

"You are my slave. I am entitled to know everything about you."

She hurls her weapon at me, diving sideways the moment she senses a counterattack. We circle each other, fixed in a deadlock. This bout will not be decided by physical prowess.

I manage to back her into a corner. Her heel slams against the wall, rattling the dangling weapons. I can tell that she's considering telling a blatant lie. The truth is etched too heavily in her face.

She relents.

"Very well. My mother wanted me to marry, and I wanted to see... something new. I was weary of a predetermined life and hoped that no man would willingly weigh such large aspirations against his own. Unfortunately, my mother found a candidate."

"I take it that you weren't in love."

It pleases me to know that Ana hasn't been pining for another since the time of her capture. Her mouth lacks the upturned corners of longing. That would make things more difficult.

"With Benjamin? Never. Despite our fortuitous match, there was little interest from either party. His head was always either in the clouds or up his own ass."

She pauses. Blunt language for a supposedly proper young woman. I gesture for her to continue.

"I told myself that I could learn to love him, but I wound up sneaking away on the back of a spice cart."

Her voice trails off in the distance. "It was only supposed to be for an afternoon."

I suspect that the rest of the story falls somewhere between her escape and her capture. That part I shall have to wheedle out of her.

"Was he wealthy?" I say to throw her off the scent, readying my parry in the interim.

"The marriage was more about security. We were always comfortable."

Someone who is comfortable enough to have a fencing tutor hardly has reason for petty theft.

I lower my guard. "That doesn't explain why you were stealing from my people."

"I only admitted guilt as a condition of my sentence. If you prod further, I'll have to make up some ridiculous lie."

She punctuates her words with a heavy blow to my chest. I stumble backward, trying not to let her see me grimace.

"Congratulations," I rasp, "You've come a long way since training."

"Thank you," she says, sincerely.

Perhaps we can both be content with our victories. I chew on the idea of Ana, as a wealthy runaway bride. If she ran into trouble on her way to independence, it's possible that she could have depleted her funds and resorted to stealing. The story seems a candid enough explanation. Yet, something still feels off. I suspect I will get no further information from this line of questioning.

On the off chance that her case was a misunderstanding, say, if Ana were actually innocent -- that would be a problem. I shudder to think. The French would never accept her after being branded a slave by their sworn enemy. It is the very purpose of branding. It would be the same for a young woman on our side. I find myself in a strange position, hoping that Ana is guilty just so she has no cause to leave.

I instruct Ana to clean up the rest of the fencing room and take my leave.

I don't have the time to be fencing each morning, but the master of the house has the right to take some liberties. The viscounty looms large enough to consume any poor soul. My father occupied his leisure time with liquor and women. And all that time began to leech into the rest of it. Now, there is a grand mess to clean up and a harbor to defend.

***

A voice calls from down the hallway, "Don Navarro!"

Señor Velazquez. The man is always lurking.

Lovely as it is to be updated between meetings, it can be a bit off-putting. I beckon for him to follow as I head toward the East Wing.

"Yes, Sebastián, what do you have for me today?"

"I have managed to increase production by ten percent this month. We are on track to meet our exportation goal by September -"

"Marvelous."

Yes, this is the kind of news I like to hear. Our industry will carry San Miguel into a new golden age.

He continues, "Unfortunately, the Guînes family has also ratcheted up their efforts to blockade your ports. They're still convinced that you had something to do with their daughter's kidnapping, and they've started harassing our merchants - "

I roll my eyes. "Of course, they have."

I say, "Send out an armed patrol with our best sailors. Our people should feel safe. That is paramount. And inquire about the cost of building out our combat fleet. I'm so sick of their maritime bullying."

He nods. "Wise, as always, Excellency."

"Is there anything else?"

Señor Velazquez bites his lip. "I'm a little concerned about the state of the girl, she's walking around now in your mother's dress with bruises and cuts all over. It's not decent for someone like her -

I cut him off, "I plan to take care of it immediately."

"That is all I ask." Sebastián bows his head, leaving me to proceed with business.

Ana's gown suits her well enough, but it is beginning to soil. Our training has been running her ragged. Next week, we will be sparring outside. That will provide a lot more space than the confines of the armory. Besides, Ana may benefit from sources of natural cover. Her little dives and weaves may become a healthy advantage.

It's a pity that women's attire isn't designed for vigorous activity. Ana will need at least few spare dresses and perhaps some smaller protective equipment. The practicing blades are blunted, but despite my best efforts, her arm often takes the brunt of my attack. A nicely tailored jacket might prevent some of the bruises cited by señor Velasquez, though I'm sure that's not what he had in mind.

Sebastián never much liked Ana. I suppose one could chalk it up to hierarchical jealousy. While Sebastián has an esteemed place in our household, he isn't exactly free himself. A complicated arrangement with my father has left the Velazquez family our generational stewards. Excellent stewards, I might add. Of course, I would release Sebastián from this obligation if he ever expressed such a sentiment. But the office of head steward and occasional spymaster is a coveted position. My friend leads quite a comfortable life.

***

I intercept Isabel at the entrance to her chambers. She carries a breakfast tray in one hand and her skirts with another. I don't know why she insists on completing such menial tasks herself. A servant could easily bring the meal to her rooms.

"Sister, dearest. Can you have a few dresses made for me?"

Isa's pink and green gown flutters down to the floor with the lightness of butterflies. I trust her to pick out a style that would suit Ana. She has an eye for fashion that would tax us were we not so well-endowed.

"I am not the woman of this household," she says. This is a touchy subject ever since mother passed. I've been told that they were close in a way I never knew. "Why don't you ask one of your many slaves to do it?"

Another lecture on a centuries-old system. Instead of engaging, I quip, "Come now, you know I don't know any of their names."

The endless parade going in and out of my chambers is too much for any man to keep straight. I haven't called on any of them recently. The supply is nearly growing stale.

"Just order a few dresses for Ana and perhaps some more appropriately sized sparring equipment."

"Brother," Isabel adds softly.

"Yes?" I reply.

This already feels like a trap.

"You haven't forgotten Ana's name." She looks at me over her shoulder. "I'll take care of it. Don't you worry."

I groan. My sister's help always comes with a price, even if that price is only my dignity. If it were up to her, she would spend our entire military budget on emancipation. No funds for fashion, indeed.

Chapter 12: Part of the Family - Catherine's Perspective

I frown. "Not a chance, master."

Our practice sessions have been running late, and Rafael has to catch up on his managerial duties. I don't see why he has to bring me into it.

Rafael sighs. "It doesn't become less intransigent because you add master to it."

He charges forward and easily bats away my defenses. In a normal context, I would love to consult on matters beyond the housework and the armory. But this is no consultation. This is a parade.

He continues, "You sit around doing nothing all day - save one hour of sparring. I might as well use you."

While I resent the characterization of my life as one of leisure, his complaints do have some merit. In theory, after our morning practice, I am meant to resume my duties as a floor-scrubbing chambermaid. However, I frequently find myself unsupervised and left to my own devices. I wander the halls as neither a faceless servant nor a member of the family.

At least, I have struck up a friendship with Isabel. She finds herself much in the same position. She's almost as stubborn as her brother and both unwilling to marry and unwilling to take on the duties of the woman of the household. Alma manages that post along with her other duties, but it taxes her. Maman would have a few choice words for the way things run around here. Still, if the draperies lack a certain taste, it's not as if the self-important bachelor is in any position to complain.

Rafael's forte slams down on the tip of my weapon.

"Very well," I say, conceding both matters.

He seems to have made up his mind before sharing these plans, and I prefer to stay on his good side. At least, I'll be reasonably attired this time.

We form a motley train, him with his dark, silk suit and me, in a secondhand frock - a frock whose sleeves have nearly been shredded to pieces. I remain a few respectable paces behind as he enters the lion's den.

***

Aside Rafael, the courtyard is much less frightening than I remember. When one isn't trussed up like a horse, a rather pleasant light shines on the tiles. He takes his seat on the wicker throne between the pillars. Marisol and Maria, both remarkably the same height, stand behind his chair.

A decorative pillow has been set out for his companion. I grimace and kneel, tucking my skirts to the side. The velvet is soft and lush against my posterior. I suspect the previous occupants of this position were more scantily clad.

Rafael turns away from me.

I lower my eyes.

"Señor Guevara," he says, "what a pleasure to see you."

I do my best to tune out the chatter of the proceedings. The affairs of minor Spaniards are none of my business. However, the dissociation would be much easier to maintain without such constant prodding. Rafael continues to impose his blunt-fisted version of justice upon his subjects. Few resolutions arise from simply letting people air their grievances. His lack of tangible solutions stems from his obvious impatience at their situations. The slight crick in his eyebrow contorts as the day carries on.

A spicy morsel appears at my mouth's entrance.

The cured meat brushes my lip, sliding back and forth until I succumb to its power. Eating from the hand of the master is a sign of a truly domesticated slave. I suppose that is the point.

Rafael grabs my chin as I try to turn away.

"Surely, you don't wish to create a scene," he whispers.

It is a statement rather than a question. Though I am practically unrecognizable from the state I arrived in, there is a good chance that these men remember me all the same. Having already seen my naked bottom, I cannot sink much lower in their eyes.

My lips part just enough for Rafael to shove the damn thing in. I chew bitterly before gulping it down in a fashion that my mother would consider extremely unladylike.

"Let us continue."

He pushes on to his next victim. His simpering subjects murmur amongst themselves about who should present their case next.

A man with a tattered collar comes forward.

"Don Navarro, I need more time to gather the taxes you requested. I know that generosity precedes your reputation."

The man smiles, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Rafael will not take kindly to a purely sycophantic appeal.

Rafael stands. "Such is why I extended such generosity last month. Since I have taken over from my father, I don't believe you've reported even one fruitful harvest season, señor Martínez. Need I remind you that tax evasion is an imprisonable offense."

This whole affair makes me grateful not to be the one on trial.

"Please, Excellency, a bit more time. I have a family to feed."

There is no way that this balding, shriveled man is going to be able to keep up with Rafael's new production quota. The whispers around the house indicate that nearly everyone is having trouble with it. If Rafael doesn't come up with a way to quell dissent soon, even his most fervent admirers will eventually turn against him.

My lips being moving of their own accord. "Perhaps the gentleman could sell you his land in return for a monthly stipend."

All eyes turn in my direction. An uncomfortable silence ensues.

"Just a thought, master," I add meekly.

Oh, I have done it now.

Rafael will not stand to be upstaged in front of his men. This may be the last time I'll be able to sit comfortably. I don't even know why I said anything at all. A people's riot would be in my best interests. Escaping from the estate would be much easier with the estate on fire. I burn the pattern of the flooring into my retinas.

"Continue," he says.

I cannot tell if his encouragement is but honey in the trap. At this point, I have little to lose.

"Well, I don't imagine us to be discussing an exceptionally large tract of land, and you would both stand to benefit if señor Martínez were able to meet his obligations. The lack of bountiful harvests in recent history suggests an opportunity for better management. The Navarro estate is well-positioned to take on another asset, and the good señor would benefit from an economic cushion in return for his labor."

Rafael reclaims his place on the throne.

"Señor Martínez, would that suggestion suit you? Considering all the back taxes you owe; I can offer you 500 reales on the spot and 50 reales in months following."

I know enough of the exchange rate to recognize that Rafael has offered the man a pittance, but a clean slate is worth more than any stubborn land. With a small allowance, señor Martinez may pursue a new vocation with a little food in his belly. It's scant but much better than rotting away in a rat-infested cell.

The man nods eagerly. "Sí, Don Navarro, gracias. Gracias, señorita."

"Very well, let it be done," says Rafael.

He whispers in my ear, "For the rest of this audience, I expect you to keep your opinions to yourself."

I hold my breath until the session ends. One transgression may be overlooked, but my chances decrease with every misplaced word. When Rafael rises, I follow him back into the main house, several requisite steps behind.

"A slave commenting on such affairs is unacceptable," he says, "but you seem to have some workable suggestions. Summarize your opinions, and I'll take them into consideration afterward. Perhaps during the audience, you can use your mouth for something else."

He looks at my lips hungrily. I refuse to dignify his comment with a response.

With every step, we wade further into the murky waters. Can it be coincidence that the bedroom he has chosen for me is adjacent to his own? Thus far, Rafael has made no attempt to utilize the door between our two apartments. I am grateful. The barrier between us appears to be thick enough to block out the sounds of his nightly companions.