– XXXII –

In which the Admiral bids the world adieu

Rosario was in her first trimester and showing. ‘He fell ill on the evening the annulment arrived from Rome. We were in bed after celebrating. He had had too much to drink. Suddenly the blood drained from his face, and he began to moan and vomit. Eventually he calmed down and fell asleep. I cleaned him and cleaned the floor and let him be. In the morning I found him in tears, half of his body, his left side, paralyzed, half of his face drooping. He was unable to speak. The doctors came and bled him and prepared all manner of herbs and potions. But nothing helped. After a week or so he improved and insisted we marry immediately in case he suffered a relapse. The priest came to the bedroom along with the mayor who served as our witness. For the next few days he seemed to get better still, but then he had another attack.”

‘May I see him?’ Shiro asked.

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘He’ll be so pleased you’ve returned.’

‘Might there be some garments I could borrow?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Does his son know? Does the King know?’

‘Juan Manuel was here last week and left distraught. As for the King, I have no idea.’

‘Was he kind to you?’

‘Who?’

‘Juan Manuel.’

‘He was civil. Though when he saw I was carrying his father’s child he seemed irritated.’

‘How could he leave his father’s side?’

The Duke’s bedroom in Sanlúcar commanded an impressive view of the beach and the swirling tides of the delta. The water was green that morning where the river met the sea, and there was a sandbar showing and the sun sparkled on the surface of the water all the way across to the wetlands. A suit of armor stood in a corner next to the model of a Spanish galleon. The bed was high and canopied and enclosed with heavy velvet curtains dyed a deep burgundy.

Shiro came in behind Rosario. The Samurai had changed from what remained of his ragged robe and trousers into Christian garb. He kept his hands behind him. The Duke was awake, and when he recognized the Samurai he made a grunting noise laced with satisfaction. Shiro smiled and tried to conceal his alarm, for his friend looked much older and frail. The Duke motioned for Rosario to hand him a pen and paper. He wrote something and handed it to Shiro. It read—where are your clothes?

The Samurai smiled and said, ‘I’ve had an adventure and lost them along the way.’

The Duke attempted to smile back, but with his good eye he studied the young man carefully, taking in his rough-hewn countenance. Then he reached out with his right hand, forcing Shiro to reveal his own. He hoped the Duke would not notice the damage done to it, but the hope was in vain. The grandee examined the mangled fingers that, though recovered with some movement, still bore scars and presented an appendage difficult to contemplate. He then motioned to see the other hand, and Shiro showed it to him. Rosario left them alone.

For a long time afterwards, Shiro would torture himself with the thought that the anger his tale elicited from the Duke had been the cause of the nobleman’s final stroke. Later that night, after Shiro and Rosario finished the evening meal, they went to the master bedroom to say goodnight and found the Grandee alive but unresponsive. Three days later he was dead.

Often during the last five years, the Duke had wondered how it might be, how it might come. It came during the night and woke him up. It was as if something inside had given out, opened, and loosened, and his life was suddenly flowing away. It did not hurt. But as he realized the gravity of it, the absolute finality of it, his fragile heart fluttered with fear. He tried to hold on at first, to keep his eye on the moon out the window, as if to grab onto a branch or some exposed root protruding from the riverbank. But his vision darkened, and the branch broke. The root proved too slippery. He was too frightened to pray. As his spirit dimmed and the world went on oblivious to his drama, he searched out memories in the hope one might assuage him. But instead, the memories that came at him seemingly did so of their own accord, rose up from god knows where within his dimming brain.

His mother’s hand holding his as they walked along the beach on a sunlit morning and the sound of her voice. The horses being driven off his ship into the Irish Sea, but now he was in the water with them and the ship moved on. A day as a lad when he’d gotten lost in the Sierra Morena and fallen asleep under a tree and then woke at dawn on damp earth hearing birds, new to the world.