The Necklace Read online

  She had tried one more time. “Papa, all I wanted was a choice in my fate. A husband lasts a long time.”

  To his credit, he had not laughed. She thought she saw a moment of contrition, but it passed soon enough, because he was still Hans Aardema, shrewd dealer in fish and now the possessor of a privilegio, little stamp for each invoice and keg that proclaimed he was the sole distributor of salted herring to the crowns of Castile and Leon.

  He had whispered to her, “Don’t hate me forever for my ambition.”

  “Do I hate you, Papa?” she asked now, as she sat on the crate. “You could have been nicer.” She faced into the wind. “So could I.”

  Chapter Two

  Hanneke left her perch on the crate and walked around the deck before going below. She nodded to the sailors squatting on their haunches around their small fire in the box of sand, roasting bits of meat.

  She had feared the crew at first, but learned they were only little people like herself, eager to return home to Spain, in their case. They had stories to tell of a voyage to England, then to the wealthy German cities and then to Vlissingen to take a woman and her dowry to their home port of Santander.

  Father Bendicio had warned her not to listen to their coarse talk. She didn’t know some of their words, but she heard mostly longing for home and family. She did not long for home. She feared what waited, ready to pounce on her, in this place which would be her home until she died.

  As much as she didn’t want to, she remembered Father Bendicio’s patient lessons on the sad history of Spain, overrun by Moors from North Africa five hundred years ago, conquering with the zeal of men ready to spread the religion of Mohammed, and find wealth among the prosperous kingdoms of the Visigoths. In Bendicio’s opinion, these Moors – succeeded by Almoravides and now Almohades – had long overstayed their welcome.

  He had told her candidly that her dowry would purchase soldiers and weapons to aid in the reclaiming of Christian lands. “The time is now,” he had said one evening in Vlissingen as she listened unwillingly.

  She returned to her favorite place to watch the water – endless water, as if land had disappeared forever. What will I get out of this? she asked herself. She had no answer, beyond the obvious one: nothing.

  Hanneke felt none the wiser in the morning, when she woke to the sound of the cabin boy by the mast, singing his morning hymn to God. She put her hands behind her head, enjoying his clear voice.

  He hadn’t finished the hymn when another voice broke in, sounding high and far away, coming from the top of the mast. “Tierra! España!”

  Hanneke hurried into her dress, the one she had worn for the entire voyage, because there was nowhere private to wash. She was as dirty as the crew, but she poked at the wrinkles and stains, wishing them gone.

  On deck, all she saw was a gray outline that disappeared and reappeared as the ship wallowed on, as ungainly as a floating wheel of cheese. So that gray lump was Spain?

  Night still found them far from shore, teased by contrary winds that had plagued them for the entire voyage. She stayed on deck in the shadows, listening as the sailors recited the Our Father. After the Ave and Credo, the ship’s boy cleared his throat and faced the captain, his father, for the nightly ritual. “Amen. God give us a good night and good sailing. May the ship make a good passage, Sir Captain, Master, and good company.”

  To Hanneke’s delight, the boy bowed in her direction at “good company.” She nodded to him in turn and earned an ear-to-ear grin.

  “Salve regina, mater misericordia,” he sang, as the sailors joined in. Hanneke sang, too – O padre, o dolcis Virgo Mater – holding out the final notes, teasing them over the water and letting them drop in the sea.

  She watched, envious, as the captain put his arm around his son. Will you ever put your arm around me, Santiago? she asked the waves. Be good to me. I might be much more than a dowry.

  A bump woke her at daybreak, as if the ship finally blundered into the dock. She would have been on deck sooner, if she hadn’t paused in front of her scrap of a mirror and noticed the carnage. With a sigh, she brushed her long black hair and braided it, wishing it were cleaner. After glance at her fingernails, she found a broom straw and quickly cleaned them. Her dress was hopeless.

  She tapped on Father Bendicio’s door. She heard mumbling inside, papers rattling, and waited.

  “We’ve docked,” she said when he opened the door. “I’m going on deck. Will Santiago meet the ship?”

  “Unlikely,” he said. “We are long overdue, at least six weeks. Why would he?”

  She hadn’t thought of that. Even a suitor eager for wealth could grow irritated at waiting. She realized with a pang that she had never asked the priest about him. “Father, what does he look like?”

  “He’s tall and blond with blue eyes, a true Castilian,” Father Bendicio said, not hiding his impatience. “Don’t ask me anything else. I have to pack.” He reconsidered. “What else…what else,” he muttered. “If he comes, he will be riding a gray stallion.”

  There was no one on horseback at the dock. She perched on a crate closer to the railing, surprised when the ship’s cat took a silent leap and landed beside her, purring and rubbing against her. “Now, at the end of the voyage, you decide to make my acquaintance?” she asked. She petted it absently and scanned the dock for a man on a gray horse.

  When she decided it might be better if he didn’t appear, she noticed a boy wrapped in a man-sized apron, squatting at the end of the dock, watching the sailors at work. She thought of her younger self, watching sailing boats return to Vlissingen with her father’s ship in the lead.

  Because a basket rested on its side beside him, she wondered if he had been sent by a cook to bring back fish. Hanneke hoped the supposed cook wasn’t in a hurry for fish; the boy was oblivious.

  Her smile faded as three horsemen rode up behind him. Uneasy, she hoped off the crate and walked to the railing, shading her eyes against the early morning sunlight. One, two, three – two white horses and a black one. She let out her breath in relief; no Santiago.

  Two of them were obviously warriors, although none wore chain mail. One was dressed much better than his compadres, and two were blonde, with some resemblance between them. The third man was darker, with hair more the color of her own, but an olive cast to his skin. Of the three men, he alone seemed to notice her. He raised his hand in greeting. She raised hers, then put it down quickly.

  As she watched in dismay, Regal Dresser edged his horse closer. Other Blonde and Dark Man looked at each other as Regal Dresser nudged his horse directly behind the boy, who turned, threw up his hands and lost his balance.

  Angry, Hanneke grabbed a rock from a ballast box beside her and threw it at Regal Dresser. The stone struck Other Blonde, who jerked back on his horse’s reins. The sudden motion upset Regal Dresser’s horse, who threw him into the water, knocking the boy in, too.

  As Other Blonde flashed her a murderous glance and fought to subdue his mount, Hanneke saw to her horror that his horse was more than white.

  Aghast at what she has caused, Hanneke ran down the gangplank and tugged at a tow rope dangling in the water. Since the boy was closer, she held it out to him first as she knelt on the dock.

  The boy hauled himself up as Dark Man dismounted and held out his hand for the man still thrashing in the water. The sailors laughed, none of them offering assistance.

  His horse under control now, Other Blonde dismounted, shouldered past Dark Man and reached for Hanneke. Before he could touch her, both

  Dark Man and the sodden boy stepped between them. “Don’t, Santiago,” Dark

  Man warned. “Enrique had bad intentions.”

  Santiago? What have I done? Hanneke thought, her fear confirmed.

  “Let me at her,” Regal Dresser said, as he tried to squeeze between them.

  The boy took a firm stand. “Here
I am, sire. Strike me instead.”

  The one called Enrique cuffed the boy back into the water, his gloved hand making a cracking sound against the boy’s neck as he plunged into the water again before Hanneke could reach him.

  “No more, sire,” Dark Man said. “Move aside, little one.”

  She did as he said, only to be grabbed by Santiago, who lifted her off her feet. “Someone should whip you, puta,” he hissed.

  She swallowed, terrified, and looked at the man she knew was her future husband. “I didn’t mean…he…that man was going to push the boy…” she stammered.

  “Let her go, Santiago,” Dark Man said. “You know your cousin was up to mischief.” He gave the floundering boy a hand up. “Boy, hurry back to the kitchen. Wings on your feet.”

  The boy ran, leaving her between two agitated men – one wet, both angry – and Dark Man trying not to smile. Uncertain, afraid, she stood still as Enrique walked around her, sniffing with every step.

  “Santiago, I smell herring,” he said.

  Before she could stop him, he lifted her gown and petticoat. “No scales.”

  “That will do, my cousin,” Santiago said. He pulled down Hanneke’s dress and pushed her toward the ship. “Go.”

  She backed up to the gangplank. “Truly I am sorry, señores,” she said, when she was out of reach.

  “You should be,” Santiago said, his voice calmer. “If your father is captain of this scow, puta, tell him to keep you far from Spain.”

  Santiago walked Enrique to their horses. They rode away without a backward glance. She turned to the man remaining on the dock, the one who seemed more amused than irritated.

  “I didn’t want that man to hurt the boy,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged and she saw no animosity. “He will recover. You can return to…to…”

  “Vlissingen,” she said, wishing she could do that. Now.

  “You can tell your children someday how you nearly drowned the next king of Spain and threw a stone at the warhorse of Santiago Gonzalez.”

  She gasped at this information given so casually. “And you, señor? Please don’t be someone important.”

  “Hardly,” he said with a laugh. “Antonio Baltierra, a su servicio.”

  She ran up the gangplank and into Father Bendicio’s room. He looked up in annoyance from the document in front of him. Hanneke sank onto a stool and stared at him. “What now?” he asked, clearly out of patience.

  She couldn’t keep the panic from her voice. “I did a terrible thing.”

  Chapter Three

  Hanneke took a deep breath and told Father Bendicio everything. He put down his quill and pushed the papers aside, his face pale.

  “You are certain it was Santiago? And Enrique?” His silence unnerved her.

  “Why did you not tell me how light his gray horse is?”

  “Gray is gray. Don’t blame me for your stupidity.”

  She flinched at that, but he was right. “He thinks I am the captain’s daughter. What does puta mean?”

  “We are not off to a good start,” was all he said. He sighed again; Father Bendicio had an amazing repertory of sighs.

  Muttering to himself in Latin, Bendicio took a final look at what she knew was the marriage document, sighed yet again, and stuffed it in a leather holder. He looked long and hard at the large strongbox containing Hans Aardema’s renowned dried herring, cod and hake, turned into gold pieces. He collared two sailors to carry the heavy box and follow them.

  Carrying her one paltry satchel, Hanneke hurried to keep up, only to find herself stumbling like a drunken person. One of the sailors assured her that she would walk straight soon, once her head realized she was no longer on a wallowing old scow. “We have been nearly three months at sea,” he reminded her, but not unkindly. “Twice as long as we thought.”

  Father Bendicio glared at her. When he fell down from the same affliction, the sailors laughed. No one liked the priest.

  It wasn’t far to the Abbey of the Holy Bodies, as strange a name as Hanneke had ever heard, but this was Spain. Father Bendicio rang the bell and a monk ushered them inside. She wanted to ask where the palace was, but thought better of it when she heard angry voices behind a closed door off the main hall, stark and painted white. The statues of two saints, perhaps those holy bodies, glared at her.

  The door swung open, and there stood Santiago Gonzalez. He stared at her, then looked at Father Bendicio. “Surely not,” he said, after a long pause that made Hanneke’s stomach start to ache. “Please no.”

  “Señor, I…” she began, not sure whether she should remain silent, or kneel, or prostrate herself in abject apology before this man she was going to marry. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, then compounded her felony by saying, “I had no idea who that bully was.”

  She saw the anger in his eyes, the dismay, the hurt, and her own eyes welled with tears. She discovered a sudden fascination with the tiles in the floor, wishing they would open and swallow her. When she found the courage to look into Santiago’s face, she took heart. He seemed to be regarding her now with something she could only call appraisal. She looked at the tiles again, even more uncertain.

  “Señorita, I have a question.”

  He spoke slowly, making certain she understood him. She looked up.

  “If…if you had known Enrique, the other rider, was a son of Alfonso Rey – King Alfonso – would you not have thrown that stone?”

  Other black-robed men had joined him in the hall, one of them the lawyer-priest she remembered from Vlissingen. There was another man, thin to emaciation, dressed in black with an ornate surcoat of gold lace.

  “Well?” He sounded brusque but not unkind, or so she hoped. She would have given the world for an ally just then, and there was none in sight. If it took a lifetime, she knew she would have to coax courage out of its hiding place in her heart.

  She gave him the truest answer. “I still would have thrown the stone, señor. He was ready to push the kitchen boy into the water and that was wrong.”

  She couldn’t take back her words. She stood there, hands folded at her waist, her gaze meeting his.

  “I should have stopped him,” Santiago said. “You are right.” He bowed to the man in the doorway. “Cousin, she may be dirty and little, but she is honest.”

  Hanneke opened her mouth and stared, wide-eyed, at the man in the doorway. He smiled at her and gestured, so she lowered herself into a graceful curtsy. I’m dirty but I can bow, she thought, as she came up out of a bow of obeisance she had practiced for weeks in Vlissingen.

  Santiago took her arm. “I know you would like to refresh yourself, but we need to do business. Come inside. Let us see this final marriage document. Father Domitius said he left it with Father Bendicio.”

  This is business, Hanneke reminded herself silently. I stink and my hair is greasy, but all eyes are on the strongbox. If I had three eyes and two noses, it wouldn’t matter.

  The king returned to a modest-enough throne at the end of the long table and everyone sat. When Hanneke looked around, Alfonso pointed to a cushion.

  “On the floor?” she asked. Her face grew warm when the men chuckled.

  “It is the tradition for women to sit closer to the ground than men.” King Alfonso shrugged. “I suppose the Moors brought this custom with them five hundred years ago. Sit.”

  She sank down on the pillow and arranged her pathetic dress around her. She worked up her courage and looked around the room, pleased to see Antonio the Dark Man sitting in the window. He had been kind at the dock, and she needed kindness.

  Alfonso nodded to Father Bendicio, who took the marriage document she had been forced to sign from its holder. She felt her worries begin again when she saw how pale he was. What was wrong?

  “Sire, these are the dowry arrangements from Hans Aardema,” the prie
st said. He glanced at Father Domitius. “There was an additional stipulation after you left.”

  The other priest’s eyes narrowed but he said nothing. Father Bendicio seemed to have trouble breathing. “Look here, the merchant and his daughter signed their names.”

  “You can read and write?” Alfonso asked.

  “Sí,” she whispered, frightened because Bendicio looked anything but reassuring.

  “Perhaps, sire, you should read it through again,” Bendicio said.

  “Is that necessary?” the king asked. “Didn’t we state our terms before you and Father Domitius left for the Netherlands?”

  Bendicio gulped. “Sire, Hans Aardema was a hard bargainer.” He knelt beside the king’s chair. “Please, sire, I did my best.”

  The king gestured, and Bendicio handed him the document. He read it, nodding, tracing his finger down the words. He stopped at the signatures. “What is this?” he asked, jabbing the parchment with his finger.

  Bendicio let out a huge breath. Alarmed, Hanneke raised up to see for herself. After their signatures, she saw more writing she knew hadn’t been there when she signed. Papa, what have you done? she asked herself, as the king read it again, looked at the ceiling and laughed.

  “The old rascal!” he murmured, then pushed the document toward Santiago. “Read there, my cousin, the lines after the signatures. We have been diddled by a fisherman.”

  Santiago leaped up from his stool and read it, standing by the king. With an oath, his eyes widened. He whirled to face Bendicio. “What foolishness is this?” he demanded.

  “He would not yield to reason,” the priest managed to choke out.

  “I rather think he was looking out for the welfare of his daughter,” the king replied.

  The sudden silence in the room pressed down on Hanneke. She heard sea birds in the harbor and a child singing somewhere, and the sound of people breathing, which reminded her to breathe. She held out her hand for the document.

  With an oath, Santiago rolled it up and slapped it in her hand. She recoiled in fright. Her hands trembled as she unrolled it and read the addition after her signature.