The First Encounter

Sunday, 13 August 1780

Mother sucked a lace handkerchief to her face, concealing the contagious grin from my future family.

Throwing the Limoges gilt cup at Miguel probably wasn’t the best idea, but the toss felt like the soft whites pushing through the crack of an eggshell that had boiled too long. I picked up the nearest thing and flung it at him.  How I managed to hold in the ensuing urge to laugh was miraculous.

The unbroken saucer, a reminder of the incident that disgraced the pristine parlor wall of Casa de la Colina, and the Lizarraga family name, was good for nothing more than a potted plant.

The over-wound-pocket-watch throw that sent my fiancé’s eyebrows as high as mine the first time I jumped Artemia over the winter woodpile, sped past Miguel’s brow with a miss so narrow, his forehead could’ve easily been bloodied with a nick worthy of bragging about to drinking buddies as a dueling mishap, had there been the remotest possibility he’d be company to either.

As the cup whistled by, my promised ducked the depth of two heads, an impressive feat most likely perfected at the university after sidestepping heckling regarding his flawless attire.

One good thing did happen by leaving the scene -- the worry I created erased punishment for my behavior.

The squabbles with Miguel over our twenty-six-month betrothal usually blew over. However, a stray ember of assertiveness sparked to flame during that particular disagreement, a display during morning tea that solidified his penchant for the unremarkable.

Our families would’ve been happy about the marriage, had there been one. Papa had eyes on Lizarraga’s private stock for years. It wasn’t already enough to be producer of the finest carriage horses in Europe with buyers coming from as far away as Moscow, Papa knew the Andalucian studs mixed with our bloodlines would’ve produced an even higher-quality animal. Pissing-off Miguel’s father was not about to help acquire the stallions, a bargain so vital Papa sold his only daughter for them.

After the incident that nearly bloodied his son’s face, Lizarraga easily could’ve cut off the source of Spanish stock we’d already been importing to France, broodmares that were the cornerstone of Monsieur Chevaleaux’s highly prized teams. And a little payback like that may have ruined a lifetime of work that afforded us to live in near luxury even though we came from generations of peasant farmers.

My throat burned with rising fluid every time someone said, “You are such a fortunate young lady.  So many girls would love to be Señora Miguel Nuñez y Lizarraga.” Indeed, Miguel was very nice looking and he came from an excellent line of near-aristocrats who somehow wound up at the same table with nobility even though they had no actual title, a position not easily accomplished without being breeders of fine horseflesh, in addition to an enormous talent for bowing while smiling.

Agreed I would be marrying above my station, but I told Papa that I had no interest in entering into a union without love and passion. To be with a man otherwise would be the same as being a whore. Every time the subject came up, with the same goatee twirl he would give Mother when there was about to be a confrontation of some kind that he was trying to avoid, Papa would stare the other way and pretend he didn’t hear such things from the mouth of his progeny.

The first celebratory clink to Miguel and Madeleine should’ve been a clue of things to come. The newly betrothed couple tipped their Burgundy-filled glasses, right after which the crystal smashed in their hands spilling purple spirits everywhere. My reaction to our stained finery appeared somewhat inconsiderate in light of the fact that as I flopped backward into a chair and laughed so hard my stays nearly ripped open, Miguel’s hand was bleeding.

He had no difficulty seeing his fiancé as a woman who could put on the white wig. But he refused to accept that she was also the girl in men’s pants with horses between her legs.

Even though he didn’t approve, Miguel never said a word about it until we were in the company of all four parents. Standing with one hand resting on the table and the other on his hip, Miguel looked right at me and said, “If you do not obey my wishes, your parents will send you to St. Mary’s Ascension Cloisters for Women.” He apparently suffered a bout of stage-fright since the admonition was delivered with a momentary crescendo of falsetto when he reached the word “will.” His voice went so high, he sounded like a girl pricking her finger on the needle in the middle of a stitch. Had he made it through the entire sentence I may have been more inclined to take him seriously, but as it came about I could barely keep the corners of my mouth flat.

What stung the most was not that he was behaving like a jackass, but the fact that he didn’t come after me when I ran out of the house.

Around mid-morning I made the first tug of the day to pull my sweat-dampened chemise from my chest. Laundry was hanging straight on its line. Had there been a momentary breeze, it was nothing more than a taunt from the devil with a bellows in hand. Tempers rose with the heat of the sun, things went awry, and I just wanted to hide in the thick woods outside Sevilla. The forest seemed like the perfect place to disappear even though the wind from Artemia’s gallop would be the only thing preventing beet cheeks and a dripping brow.

Colorful reference to peril on the roads, a topic usually included in Andalucian conversation along with Spain’s reputation for risky travel, seemed to be nothing more than washerwoman talk. Nonetheless, my brother’s well-worn pants that had already provided years of scatting the side-saddle also served as a suitable disguise for a single woman.

Soft patting of hoof beats in the dirt reminded me of riding with Rene. The bout of dysentery, although not the pleasantest of ailments, was not fatal. Rene’s life had been cut short by someone’s half-assed notion to put him in the tubercular ward, a stupid move to accommodate the last empty bed. Had the hospital been staffed by the competent, my brother would’ve been a few years Miguel’s senior and surely would’ve interceded on my behalf. I stopped myself from going any further with the lingering thoughts I harped on regularly, as if revisiting the scene over and over would bring him back to life.

Tucking her haunches under like a rabbit, Artemia took off with echoing hooves banging on the stable-yard stone, loud enough to drown out a laugh. During my rapid departure from La Colina, the stable boy smirked when he saw that as she vaulted off an upside-down bucket onto her readied mare and closed her pant-legs on the grey filly’s flat sides, the distressed fiancé was wearing a grin.

To take a coach ride in any direction, one would’ve found it difficult not to cry. Crisp butter-colored crops lay horizontal in their fields. Those who could afford to eat during the rainless summer had to pay dearly. And for the less fortunate, food was scarce. What God had planted managed to survive since most of the trees were still green. But the seeds sown by man just couldn’t take it.

Following our rapid departure and a good walk to allow the mare sufficient time to regain her wind, I gave Artemia her head.

Like Flamenco on a tabletop, a syncopated heartbeat, or a ticking clock gone mad, but consistent in its insanity, the mare’s hooves hammered the hardened path with a gallop, flying the long feather in my cap flat and sucking tears across my cheeks.

Ignoring the sting from the cuffs of my father’s white muslin shirt snapping on my arms, I glanced down past Artemia’s vibrating gray shoulder turned nearly black from sweat. The ground was a blur. I wasn’t sure if someone was on the path ahead or not.

The mare’s ears pointed back, questioning the tug of leather sliding through my fingers with a tiny grab on her rein. She slowed with a bounce or two and I steadied my gaze on the traveler. His hair was longer than mine. Even tied behind his head with a cloth, his brown locks were nearly to his waist. Yes, definitely a man. And he filled his clothes well. Perfect hips and thighs packed into close-fitting black pants without an inch to spare, swaying side to side with each stride of his mount. I popped a grin. A black, flat-brimmed hat that I doubt would have been appropriate anywhere besides Spain was not upon his head, but instead hung around his shoulders by a neck-cord. Why did he bother wearing it all?

A little buffoonery seemed in order. I laughed. And, in the final seconds before the event that would change my life, a tiny sting landed on my tongue as an insect blew into my open mouth. I spit it to wind and kicked the mare on. The stranger still didn’t turn around. Ignoring the deafening hooves slapping the rock-like dirt behind him, he kept looking straight ahead, calmly walking on as if he owned the road. Should the man have been deaf, he might’ve been oblivious to the mischief, having long grown accustomed to that sort of thing, so I found it necessary to take the less-than-admirable gesture even lower. Merely charging by at a gallop wasn’t enough. It would be far greater sport to lightly brush the black horse with a little bump from Artemia and then vanish into the woods.

The Limoges was still flying across the room. My heart beat faster with each stride that took me closer to the stranger. During the time a drop of water could splat-sizzle into a heated pan, I hatched the entire scheme. The speed of our gallop, however, turned out to be a hair brisker than necessary. The contact that was supposed to have been a little bump came with such force, Artemia nearly dumped me. We collided and my leg wedged between both steeds. I screamed. And instead of galloping away in glee, I struggled to find the flopping stirrups. The mare’s sweat had slipped the girth and the saddle went crooked. I had to dig my knee into the horse’s shoulder, and grab the seat with my heel, or I would’ve been riding the dust. Lord only knew what the mare thought I was doing. Luckily, she didn’t slow down, even with me hanging over her side.

Pulling myself back up, bumping my crotch on a twisted seat, I took a quick turn to see my handiwork. The black had buckled to his knees and catapulted the stranger onto his horse’s neck. The man pushed himself back into the saddle, pulled his mount’s head up by the reins, and came after me like a bolt out of the sky. I kicked Artemia, hard. Her lungs roared. Froth oozed from the sides of her neck, making the reins slippery white.  My legs flew straight out before landing repeated kicks, but the mare was no match for the black.  Every time I found a moment to turn around, my pursuer was closer.

I prayed for a miracle.  A blink-of-an-eye choice had to be made right then. The road ahead veered to the right over a primitive bridge. And a gallop over the flimsy wood planks might spook my horse. The only option was to leave the road and sharply turn down an embankment that led to a dry river bed. We would soon to be upon it one way or the other. The shorter, faster route required brazen-faced aplomb that would’ve allowed us to cross the ravine and pick up the road on the other side in much less time. Besides, no sane person would follow. I took the short cut.

The sweaty reins slipped through my fingers as I yanked on the bridle. The tired mare couldn’t slow down. I yelled, “Arête.” She finally locked her hocks just moments before missing the only spot on the ledge that allowed us a way to cross over.

Sliding to a stop in a tiny puff of dust on the edge of a dirt chasm that was practically ninety-degrees straight down, I finally got a good look. What probably had been under water before the drought looked all that much higher from atop a horse. My gut twisted into a knot. From a distance, it looked like the drop was nothing more than a small bank, but when I pointed Artemia’s nose down the hill I saw the descent that easily equaled my mounted height.

Fire raced through my veins. With a loud splat, I slapped the end of the reins on Artemia’s wet shoulder. We’d jumped that sort of thing before, but I could hardly blame the sweaty gray girl for questioning my sanity. I slammed my heels into her ribs. She danced in place on the edge of the precipice, jingling the bit in her mouth with each toss of her nose. The savvy little horse had to blindly trust me, since the angle of the drop didn’t allow either of us to see where we would land.

I pushed my ass deep into the saddle.  Crouching down to take the bank like a cat ready to pounce, Artemia shifted her weight onto her hind legs. The big black was almost upon us. No time to hesitate. I screamed, “Alle!” Artemia vaulted away, hard.

During a thin slice of a second, while she was struggling in the dirt to find her legs, I thought we would be fine. But, the wax seal broke on the envelope. The bank gave way and we slid down the incline. With each attempt at staying upright, we only sank deeper and deeper. Lowering her head to keep her balance, the mare pulled the reins through my fingers. Her dappled rump bumped the dirt behind us, buckling her legs.  She went down to her shoulder. I fell with her.

Musty, brown foliage, crisp from a lengthy death filled my view.  Everything was quiet. I tried to get up. Sharp pains stabbed me, while bits of blue punched random cutouts through branches swaying in a momentary breeze. Birds happily flittered from limb to limb. I hurt all over.

Feeling around for my cap as I lay there, I wound up with a fistful of clumped leaves nearly the same color as my hair. I was about to get up when rustling got louder. Thank heaven, the mare didn’t run off. The gratitude was, however, short-lived. The sound of leaf movement coming closer was not from the hooves of my horse, but from human footsteps accompanied by a panting four-legged animal.

Lying perfectly still, peeking through my lashes, I hoped he couldn’t hear my heart beating a hole in my chest.

My dagger along with my dress had been forgotten on the bed at La Colina. However, the oversight was not without a historic event. I actually regretted not taking Mother’s advice, something that probably had never happened before. The Gospel according to Anne almost always included the concealing of a knife. Even if a girl lacked merit, she should at least keep up the appearance of virtuosity by carrying a weapon.

Mother’s tiny gold earrings jiggled with the movement of her jaw when she’d say, “Always carry a dagger, Madeleine. Don’t go anywhere without it.”

One boot firmly planted at my hips and the other at my shoulder pointing up the hill, the victim of my prank was standing next to me.

A lustrous pair of tall black boots with huge over-the-knee flaps turned down at the top of the calf had blotted up large amounts of someone’s spit. Was it his or another’s that had done the polishing?

Like a bunny reflected motionless in the sparkle of a hound’s eye, except for my heaving bosom, I didn’t move. The charade, however, ended abruptly, when the stranger’s dog wet-poked me in the face with his snout, mopping my cheeks and eyelids with an enormous tongue while I was trying to appear unconscious.

Almost as is if chasing a mouse in my clothes, the man put his hands all over me. I squealed like a schoolgirl. Being pawed like that seemed harmless, except that he targeted my privates with exuberance unbecoming of a gentleman. I didn’t dare look at his face, but could feel him smiling as he palmed me all over. Darting from one place to another, he grabbed both my breasts. I swung my arms, managing to slap him several times about the shoulders. Then he put his hand directly between my legs. I screamed.

“Adelio, I think our friend is very much alive,” he said, to the sizable fine-boned hunting dog that had wandered away for a sniff of the ground where Artemia went down.

Hoping he hadn’t felt the little involuntary contraction of approval, I pried the stranger’s probing palm from my crotch by his wrist and yelled, “Unhand me, Señor! Are you not a gentleman?”

He gave me another little squeeze between the legs, laughed, and said, “It doesn’t appear as though you’re a gentleman, either.”

Then he made some silly reference implying that he was merely checking to see if I was hurt, but I wasn’t about to let his ridiculous excuse pass. Pushing myself up off the ground, I said, “Señor, it is quite doubtful you would’ve checked another man for broken bones, in the manner in which you violated me. You took advantage of an unconscious woman just so you could steal a feel.”

“I assure you that if I was going to feel a girl, I wouldn’t be stealing it. And, I may not be one-hundred-percent certain, but I don’t think those who’ve been rendered unconscious are quite that capable of kicking, clawing, cursing, and scratching.”

I brushed the debris from my clothes, and he started in with me again, adding a hint of sarcasm.

“You’ve taken quite a spill. For a while there, it looked like you were actually going to make it. You handled that mare pretty well for a girl. Where did you learn to ride like that?”

“…On my own. And I am not a girl. I’m a woman.”

Batting me around like a mouse under a cat’s paw, he said, “Really?” And, with a huge pause before finishing his sentence he closed in for the kill. “What’s the difference?”

“Maturity.”

Looking straight up to the sky, he laughed loudly and replied, “Yes, I see that now. How could I have made the error?”

I gave my sweated collar a tug away from my neck. “Voltaire said that a witty saying proves nothing.”

The stranger quipped back, “Voltaire also said that anything too stupid to be said is sung.”

The additional blow of slipping on the incline of dead leaves and falling on my ass failed to subdue my waning enthusiasm. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Then, as if he had suddenly become concerned with my unsteadiness, he lost his smile, reached down to help me to my feet, and said, “That’s exactly my point.”

I pulled my arm away and snapped, “It amazes me how quickly you’ve become tiresome. Where’s my mare?”

“Probably back in … where is it you’re from, France?”

“Casa de la Colina.”

“Casa de la Colina? Lizarraga never mentioned a daughter. However, if the clandestine child has returned, after having spent even such a brief time in her company, I completely understand why he wanted it kept quiet.”

It was probably a good thing I was so dizzy, I aimed a slap at his face and promptly lost my balance.

The stranger grabbed my arm to keep me from falling and in a newfangled tone of seriousness said, “I will take you to Casa de la Colina.”

“I can walk, thank you.”

Letting go of me, he replied, “Well, I’ll be off then. Surely you’ll be fine walking for hours in this heat.  Shall I ride ahead and tell Lizarraga you’ll be late for supper?”

Wobbling up the hill by myself, I got to the road after slipping onto my palms only once or twice.

I had taken but a few steps and had to stop.

Keeping up his master’s annoying tendencies, the dog with a wide silver collar engraved with some sort of monogram was right there beside me, panting and poking his nose wherever he pleased.

I took a few more steps and stopped to wipe my brow with my shirtsleeve, bent over and put both hands on my knees, only to endure another lick in the face.

The curve ahead that had previously gone by in a blur was leagues away.

The jingle of the steel bit, sweet scent of a sweaty horse, and gentle sound of hooves softly pressing into the sand next to me shouldn’t have been a surprise. I was grateful I hadn’t been abandoned, yet kept looking straight ahead as if I were alone.

The hoof-beats stopped.  I expected a clever quip of some kind, but the man silently slipped his boot from the iron, placed his leg forward of the saddle, and reached down to me. I took his hand and slid my foot into the silver stirrup of a nobleman.

Pulling me up onto his horse with him, the stranger said, “It might be to your benefit to stay on top of the animal this time. Hang on to me.”

Taking him around the waist was embarrassing. But the longer I held on, the more I wanted to.

In the tiny silence before the black’s next hoof touched the earth, my hand was pressed into the flimsy barrier of a moist muslin shirt. Underneath, unyielding flesh made me wonder what the stranger’s bare skin felt like.

The lullaby of repetitive horse steps convinced me to rest my head on his shoulder. Closing my eyes, I felt as though I were falling into a badger hole and onto the pages of a little-girl’s story book. As I am running down the darkened palace steps toward a golden coach, one of my shoes slipped off. Frantically looking around, I let go a sigh of relief. There it was, sparkling in the torchlight.  I picked up the glass slipper.