The Brethren and the Rose

1671 – PANAMÁ

Doña Inés knew the best sword for her when she saw it in the display of ancient weapons. The edge, though scarred by battle, was sharp. It felt good to hold a blade again. She could defend herself. If needed.

Explosions shook the villa. The militia was blowing up the armory. That could only mean Morgan and his men had broken through the city’s defenses. O, Dios, how could You let this happen?

Church bells clanged, urging people to safety on ships in the harbor. Shouts rose from the street.

Doña Matilde, wife of the governor of Panamá, ran into the room, something Inés had never seen her friend do. Her clothing was disheveled, her honey-colored curls plastered against her forehead. Matilde stared at the shuttered windows as if the planks had been blown away, exposing the women to an enemy who roamed at will.

They were in the governor’s office, surrounded by oak furniture and tapestries of hunting scenes. That morning Inés’ husband had sent her to stay with Matilde, promising the militia would keep Black Morgan and his hell-bound bastards from entering the city. But, good Lord forbid, he had been wrong. She could hear the shouts of men in the street, as they ransacked homes, killing all who tried to stop them.

Matilde seemed to be praying as she clutched a gold cross. Pale in the dim light, she looked younger than her twenty-five years. “We will be slaughtered like sheep.” Tears sounded in her voice.

“Not if we go to the ships. Now.” Inés said. Her words made her feel braver. “Any guns?”

“My husband has a pistol.”

More explosions erupted from the plaza.

“Fetch it.” Inés gave her an encouraging pat, and prayed Matilde would not see how frightened she was.

Musket fire sounded nearby.

“Go. Quick,” Inés whispered. “Bring shot, powder. We will leave by the back gate.”

“I know nothing about guns.” Matilde’s eyes were wide, pleading, as if she hoped Inés might turn into a magic bird and whisk them both away.

“I do.” Inés gave her an encouraging nod.

Matilde hurried toward the patio. The muskets grew louder. Shouts penetrated the walls.

Inés looked at the sword she held. It had been years. Could she still fight? Swinging it upwards, she turned her body to provide a smaller target. Enguardia. Memories swept over her. On the plains of Sevilla. The sun on her back. The smell of ripe grain. Fifteen years old, she had crossed swords with her brother, Riqui. He had no other partner. “Back straight. Knees bent. Lead with the right.” Maestro Julio’s words rang in her ears.

She slid forward attacking an imaginary opponent, parried a thrust, her movement awkward, too slow. If it came to fighting…. It will not. Tearing the ruffle off her skirt, she shortened it. With a strip, she tied back her long hair.

A scream, a wail. Matilde. The British were inside the villa.

Invisible hands squeezed Inés’ chest, making it hard to breathe. Her mouth tasted of dust. She rushed to the door and looked across the gallery surrounding the patio.

Among the frangipani trees, two men loomed over Matilde. A scraggly haired brute held her from behind, knife at her throat. The second, bald as a toad, stroked her cheek.

Dearest Lord, please do not let anything happen to my only real friend in this city.

Matilde screamed again. A pistol and powder horn lay in the dirt several feet away. Where were the servants?

Inés listened to the harsh voices. English. Years had passed since she last heard that dreadful language. They laughed, congratulating themselves on finding a woman.

She drew herself up to her full height, hid the sword behind her and stepped from the gallery into the sunshine of the patio. “Good day, gentlemen.”

The bald man whipped around, cutlass drawn. “What ’ave we ’ere?” He grinned, took a step forward.

“The silver is over there.” She pointed to a doorway. “Take it and go.” Her tongue seemed paralyzed, the words sounded strange. Would they understand?

The man holding Matilde snickered. “Two o’ them. One each.” He ran his hand over her breast and squeezed. Her were eyes closed, her mouth moved in silent prayer.

Inés drew a deep breath. Voices sounded in the street. She forced a smile and tilted her head. “Let her go. You both can enjoy me.”

The bald one’s eyebrows shot up as he tucked his cutlass into his sash. “I likes ’em willing.”

“Release my friend.” Inés feared she would collapse.

The men glanced at each other, grinned.

The bald man took a step toward her. “I wants ’em both.”

She backed. He followed. She would lure him into the gallery, as the matador leads the bull. He would lunge, impale himself on her sword. She could do this. She forced herself not to look at Matilde. Lord, watch over her, she prayed.

One step more. He dove towards her and she swung the sword between them. Too soon.

He stopped short. “Ha, a lady with a sword.” He drew his cutlass.

He surged. She parried. Concentrate on his eyes, the words rang in her mind.

He waggled his fingers. “Come on, sister, that all you got?”

His taunts sharpened her focus. She feinted, drawing the brute off balance, her arms moved as they had been trained. She slid forward, driving him back.

He staggered, regained his footing. “Not bad. But, you’ll ’ave to do better.”

She retreated. He pursued, swinging his blade through the air. Her sword deflected his, her reactions automatic.

Sounds came from the patio: a cry, a groan, laughter. Matilde needed help.

Her attention on her attacker, Inés blocked the sounds, waited for him to betray his next move.

His chest rose and fell. “Think you’re ’andy with a sword, do ya?” He twisted his cutlass and poked it at her. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead.

Focus. Eyes on his.

He attacked. Catching his blade against hers, she pushed it aside. His foul breath enveloped her, stale wine and decayed teeth. He whipped his cutlass in a circle, nicking her chin. She felt nothing but a warm trickle on her neck. She drew back, eyes riveted to his, arms aching.

“Yah.” He thrust again. Her slice intercepted his blade. Rolling her hands, she redirected the point of her blade beneath his outstretched arms and drove it with all her strength deep into his belly. His eyes widened. He grunted. With effort, she withdrew her sword, held her breath, ready to attack again.

He staggered towards her, dropped to his knees. His mouth opened in a groan. Blood dribbled down his chin. He grabbed at her skirt, then toppled forward onto the flagstones.

She stood still, heart pounding. She had done it…killed a man. But…at the cost of her eternal soul? The fires of hell? Oh, dear God.

A whimper came from the patio.

Inés looked towards her friend.

Matilde lay on the dirt. “Please…no,” she cried. “I do not want to die.”

The man straddled Matilde on his knees, his back to Inés. Grunting and laughing, he fought her flailing hands. “Quiet, girl.” A knife flashed. Her hands slumped onto the dirt. “Ooh. Look wha’ ya made me do.”

Inés bit her lips to keep from yelling. No. Please, dear Lord, no.

The man dropped his knife and pulled up her petticoats, struggling with the layers.

Inés crept towards them. Shouts of fighting in the street masked her footsteps. She fixed her gaze on the broad expanse of leather jerkin and the exposed neck. In the distance, a dog barked.

With one motion she reached the man’s back, lifted her sword with both hands and drove the point into the base of his skull. She felt his spine snap. He groaned and slumped forward. La estocada. The bull was dead.

“Matilde, you are safe.” She threw aside the sword and struggled to haul the body off her friend. She trembled violently. “Matilde, answer me.”

Her friend lay in a halo of red, a slash striped her neck. She opened her eyes and moaned as Inés gently took her head onto her lap. After ripping a section of linen from her skirt, Inés folded the material and pressed it against the wound, trying to stop the hemorrhage. Blood drenched the bandage and oozed between her fingers.

“Querida, aquí estoy,” She whispered, brushing a lock of hair off the pale forehead. “I will not leave you.” The eyes looked at her, unseeing. “I came as quickly as I could.”

Inés cradled her friend in her arms, pressing her own aching cheek against the soft hair, breathing in her fragrance, mingled with the smell of blood. “Please, do not leave me, do not die.” Her breath came short and fast. “Querido Jesús, Salvador del mundo, save her,” she prayed.

She rocked Matilde there on the dirt, barely aware of the chaos outside.

A soft touch on her shoulder brought her back to the present. She looked up.

Matilde’s Indian servant, Alma, bent over her. Silence had settled over the villa. Muskets popped in the distance. The fighting had passed on to other barrios.

“Venga, señora. Doña Matilde’s suffering is over. We must go. The city is burning. The cathedral is already gone.”

Inés felt trapped in quicksand, her mind struggling to grasp what had happened. “I must stay with her.”

Alma touched her cheek, wiping tears, tears she had not felt. Taking her shoulders, she turned Inés to face her. Pain etched the woman’s eyes. “We will go to the jungle. My family will hide you.” Her words seemed to come from far away. Was she speaking to someone else?

Inés looked down at Matilde. “She needs me.”

Alma glanced at the dead man. “Señora, you are not safe here.”

Tenderly, Inés closed her friend’s eyes. Her skin was cold, her fragrance, faded. Inés drew a deep breath, an attempt to recapture the scent. “She was a sister to me. We were born the same day, same year.” She ran her hand over the blond curls. “I will take her with me.”

“Por favor, señora. She is past caring. Save yourself.”

Inés tried to rise, her friend still cradled in her arms. “Don Juan will be here soon. I do not want him to see her.”

Alma took Matilde from her and laid her gently on the ground. Blood smeared her cotton shift.

Inés pushed back her own tangled hair. Her hands were sticky with blood. Men’s blood. Matilde’s blood. Her blood. She closed her eyes and touched the wound on her chin. The flow had stopped.

Alma took her arm and spoke slowly, enunciating each word. “Come away to the jungle.”

Why was the woman, just a few years older, treating her like a child? “I must go home. My husband will be worried. He went with the militia, but he is not a soldier.” Why was she babbling to a servant? She fought to rise, aware of a great heaviness.

Alma helped her to stand. “My brother is waiting. Your husband can join us.”

A cannon boomed nearby. Inés flinched.

Alma tugged her arm. “Señora, we must leave.”

“They will find us in the jungle.”

“No, señora. They will not.”

Inés looked around. The sky was black. Billows of smoke rose from neighboring houses. She saw the gun and powder horn in the dirt. It was a miniature dueling pistol, compact enough to fit into her waist pouch. Not much protection. She poured powder into the barrel, rammed in wadding and shot and primed it. She felt calmer.

She picked a frangipani and breathed in its fragrance. It smelled of blood. She knelt beside Matilde, tears blurring her vision, and laid the flower on her breast.

“Adiós, sweet friend. May you rest among the angels.”