– XXII –

In which a wife becomes a widow

Apart from the unsettling coincidence that her son-in-law’s mistress and her husband’s were one and the same, Doña Inmaculada was not especially perturbed by the news that Rodrigo was seeing a noblewoman. Not only a noblewoman, but one well regarded at court. Over the years, her fantasies concerning the satisfaction of Rodrigo’s baser needs had led her to conjure up brothels blackened with grime and populated by women unmannered and unclean. She was grateful Rodrigo was in Madrid that week, allowing her respite and time to consider whether her newly gained knowledge was worth throwing in his face.

For a moment, she entertained the notion that perhaps they visited the woman together. But she presumed to know her husband well enough to eliminate such a possibility. At the very least, he was too vain and, in his way, too old-fashioned. The idea, in fact, just before she banished it forever, caused her to giggle aloud.

The most scandalous and irritating part of the sordid tale for her was that the Duke knew about it. Worse yet, that most disagreeable and vociferous argument had been carried out in front of Guada and Rosario and the peculiar stranger. But somehow it had fostered a new sort of intimacy with the Duke. The cathartic repast had left a wearisome but welcome calm in its aftermath.

And with respect to Rodrigo, the Duke had done her a favor. What had constituted a tidal flow of speculation now had a name and a face. And though she would never admit it to anyone, it was someone she might get used to. She assumed he was with her now, and the thought, for the first time, allowed her to truly enjoy her solitude.

The only thorn remaining was Julian. Soledad Medina had warned them, and Guada it seemed, had been apprised of the young man’s other attachment. Her daughter had reckoned with it, or so she had thought, with dignity. Guada’s only error had been an excess of pride, believing him when he swore he would stop. The young man’s weakness for his own aunt, half-aunt to be exact, combined with the poor reviews awarded his assignment in Sanlúcar, tested the bounds of Inmaculada’s goodwill toward him. But some remained. She wished to look upon him after all as a son. Her own had been far more troubling to them thus far. Julian’s faults were ones she could understand. And he was wealthy, and handsome, and his standing would surely improve with time and he would give Guada beautiful children. Yes, she thought, with sufficient patience and prayer, a way could be found to carry on and overcome these disappointing days.

***

When Diego Molina rode to Sevilla after leaving Shiro at the Duke’s estate in Medina-Sidonia, he presented himself at the door of the Sánchez Ordoñez family. The abode was a modest house in the Triana district. Their prized daughter, Rocío Sánchez, had remained faithful to Diego for the two and a half years he had been at sea. Though she only received three letters from him in all that time and was ardently pursued by a baker of means, her flame for Diego remained lit and constant.

The reunion was a joyous one. With the exception of his missing hand, Rocío found him even handsomer than she remembered, and with the exception of an additional kilo or two thanks to the baker’s fruitless favors, he found in her a delectable answered prayer.

Upon payment by the bursar for his time at sea, he had twice the money he would have earned working with his family in the olive trade. But much more valuable from Rocío’s point of view was his declaration that his wanderlust was sated, his avarice for adventure had becalmed. He told her that from then on the profession of selling harvests of choice arquebina olives would suit him just fine as long as he knew she would be there each evening with a meal and an embrace.

The wedding took place within a week of his arrival. They settled into a small, whitewashed house at the southern border of the olive estates in the countryside west of the city. They put their home in order and took pride going about their respective tasks. Enjoying home-cooked meals free of family and spending nights alone together went a long way toward eradicating the doubts and discomforts that had arisen during their separation. He regaled her with tales from his travels, and she filled him in on thirty months’ worth of local gossip.

Then one day he did not return from the groves. A man he worked with only knew that a nobleman and two men had ridden into the fields asking for Diego. The man and Rocío spent the afternoon and evening walking up and down the carefully plowed hills of iron-rich soil where the olive trees had been planted by Phoenicians and Romans. As dusk settled, they were alerted by the barking of Diego’s mastiff. They found the one-armed man on the verge of death, tied to a tree, run through by a sword. He was barely able to speak. They cut him down, and she rested his head upon her lap. She could not bear to look at the wound. After telling Rocío how much he loved her, and how sorry he was, his very last words were meant for someone else. ‘Tell Shiro the Samurai,’ he said, feeling the earth fall away from him, ‘it was the noble who wrote the letter in Sanlúcar.’

She would not leave him. The man she came with went for help. She remained with the dog and her husband’s body all through the night. She insisted he be buried where he lay, and when the priest objected, she spit at him. In silence she stayed by the tree and the mound where her man was interred for three days afterwards despite pleading from his family and her own. It was only when the baker came and sat down beside her that she deigned to speak. She looked at him with a fierceness he had never seen before. ‘If you will take me to the Samurai,’ she said—and he listened, not knowing what the word meant—‘I shall marry thee before the year is out.’