joking? The honesty in the face reassured her.
“Yes,” she replied. “They will rob us. Kill my father. Me—” She fell silent. Her eyes flitted toward the place where the woman had been lying on the ground. But the woman was not there now. She was on her feet, walking slowly toward the farmhouse. Two of the hidalgo’s men were helping her along.
She heard the hidalgo’s voice, snarling. “That’s good enough. More than good enough. ” She was startled by the sheer fury in his tone.
An instant later, the door was being opened. A black man, naked from the waist up, was climbing into the carriage. In one hand, he held a small red box emblazoned with a white cross. Despite her astonishment, Rebecca made no protest when the black man gently moved her away from her father and began examining him.
The examination was quick and expert. The man opened the box and began withdrawing a vial. Rebecca, a physician’s daughter, recognized another. She felt a vast sense of relief. Thank God—a Moor! Her father thought well of Islamic medicine. His opinion of Christian physicians bordered on profanity.
The Moor turned to the hidalgo. The hidalgo, after shouting a few commands—Rebecca, preoccupied with her father, had not caught their meaning—had his head back in the carriage.
The Moor spoke in quick and curt phrases. His accent was different from the hidalgo’s, and he used strange words. Rebecca could only understand some of his English.
“He’s having a (meaningless word— coronation? —that made no sense). Pretty bad one, I think. We need to get him to a (hostel?) as soon as possible. If we don’t get some (meaningless phrase—the first part, she thought, sounded like ’clot-busting,’ but what could dirt have to do with anything?) into him, there won’t be any point. The damage will have been done.”
Rebecca gasped. “Is he dying?” The black physician glanced at her. His dark eyes were caring, but grim. “He might, ma’am,” he said softly. “But he might make it, too.” (’Make it?’ Survive , she assumed. The idiom was strange.) “It’s too early to tell.”
Another shout came from one of the hidalgo’s men. Rebecca thought it came from the farmhouse. This time she understood the words. “They’re coming! Take cover (meaningless—the hidalgo’s name, she thought)!” Maikh?
The hidalgo was staring down the road. Rebecca could now hear the sounds of racing footsteps and other shouting men. Germans. Tilly’s men. Baying like wolves. They had spotted the carriage.
The hidalgo shook his head and shouted back. “No! You all stay in the farmhouse! As soon as they come up, start shooting. I’ll draw their fire away from the carriage!”
Quickly, he thrust his head into the carriage, extending his hand toward the physician. “James, give me your gun. I haven’t got time to find my own.”
The Moor reached back and drew something out of the back of his trousers. Rebecca eyed it uncertainly. Is that a pistol? It’s so tiny! Nothing like those great things the Landsknechte were carrying.
But she did not doubt her guess, from the eager way the hidalgo seized the thing. Rebecca knew very little about firearms, after all, though she was struck by the intricate craftsmanship of the weapon.
Now the hidalgo was striding away. Not more than five seconds later, he had taken his stance many yards from the carriage. He stopped, turned. Briefly, he inspected the pistol, doing something with it that Rebecca could not make out clearly. Then, squaring his shoulders and spreading his feet, he waited.
Rebecca was at the carriage window now, watching. Her eyes flitted back and forth from the farmhouse to the hidalgo. Even as inexperienced as she was, Rebecca understood immediately what the hidalgo was doing. He would draw
“Yes,” she replied. “They will rob us. Kill my father. Me—” She fell silent. Her eyes flitted toward the place where the woman had been lying on the ground. But the woman was not there now. She was on her feet, walking slowly toward the farmhouse. Two of the hidalgo’s men were helping her along.
She heard the hidalgo’s voice, snarling. “That’s good enough. More than good enough. ” She was startled by the sheer fury in his tone.
An instant later, the door was being opened. A black man, naked from the waist up, was climbing into the carriage. In one hand, he held a small red box emblazoned with a white cross. Despite her astonishment, Rebecca made no protest when the black man gently moved her away from her father and began examining him.
The examination was quick and expert. The man opened the box and began withdrawing a vial. Rebecca, a physician’s daughter, recognized another. She felt a vast sense of relief. Thank God—a Moor! Her father thought well of Islamic medicine. His opinion of Christian physicians bordered on profanity.
The Moor turned to the hidalgo. The hidalgo, after shouting a few commands—Rebecca, preoccupied with her father, had not caught their meaning—had his head back in the carriage.
The Moor spoke in quick and curt phrases. His accent was different from the hidalgo’s, and he used strange words. Rebecca could only understand some of his English.
“He’s having a (meaningless word— coronation? —that made no sense). Pretty bad one, I think. We need to get him to a (hostel?) as soon as possible. If we don’t get some (meaningless phrase—the first part, she thought, sounded like ’clot-busting,’ but what could dirt have to do with anything?) into him, there won’t be any point. The damage will have been done.”
Rebecca gasped. “Is he dying?” The black physician glanced at her. His dark eyes were caring, but grim. “He might, ma’am,” he said softly. “But he might make it, too.” (’Make it?’ Survive , she assumed. The idiom was strange.) “It’s too early to tell.”
Another shout came from one of the hidalgo’s men. Rebecca thought it came from the farmhouse. This time she understood the words. “They’re coming! Take cover (meaningless—the hidalgo’s name, she thought)!” Maikh?
The hidalgo was staring down the road. Rebecca could now hear the sounds of racing footsteps and other shouting men. Germans. Tilly’s men. Baying like wolves. They had spotted the carriage.
The hidalgo shook his head and shouted back. “No! You all stay in the farmhouse! As soon as they come up, start shooting. I’ll draw their fire away from the carriage!”
Quickly, he thrust his head into the carriage, extending his hand toward the physician. “James, give me your gun. I haven’t got time to find my own.”
The Moor reached back and drew something out of the back of his trousers. Rebecca eyed it uncertainly. Is that a pistol? It’s so tiny! Nothing like those great things the Landsknechte were carrying.
But she did not doubt her guess, from the eager way the hidalgo seized the thing. Rebecca knew very little about firearms, after all, though she was struck by the intricate craftsmanship of the weapon.
Now the hidalgo was striding away. Not more than five seconds later, he had taken his stance many yards from the carriage. He stopped, turned. Briefly, he inspected the pistol, doing something with it that Rebecca could not make out clearly. Then, squaring his shoulders and spreading his feet, he waited.
Rebecca was at the carriage window now, watching. Her eyes flitted back and forth from the farmhouse to the hidalgo. Even as inexperienced as she was, Rebecca understood immediately what the hidalgo was doing. He would draw
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