We slept for a few hours in a partially collapsed boat shed, laying our clothes out on the overturned keel of a defunct fishing boat to dry.  It sounds idyllic, and I suppose if you’re really tired sleeping on the ground is an idyll of sorts – it beats staying awake.  But we were on our guard and only half slept, and weren’t at all comfortable.  There were insects, and a rough floor and the canvas we found to lay down on was slightly mildewed and scratchy.

It wasn’t a perfect place for lovemaking, but I put an army over Challie and she didn’t object.  She drowsed with her head against me, holding her little Bayard, and I kept my hand on my Webley. 

My wristwatch was an Omega Marine, and it was still working.  I drifted in and out of sleep, marking time.  We’d agreed that Siesta would be the best time for us to make our way back to town, but by noon we could no longer sleep and our clothes were dry.  We dressed as best we could and started walking one of the tram lines. 

We tried to stay out of sight and stick to paths or tracks with brush or scrub around them until we got to a road.  We had no good explanation for what we were doing this far from the city, near the water, and the boat would have been reported.  I had a moment as I moved at a crouch into a thicket when I kicked something white and grinning.  I gave an involuntary start, and saw the half covered remains of maybe twenty skeletons.  Some still had remnants of clothes and leathery skin.  They’d been dead for maybe six or eight months.  When I’d recovered from startlement, I looked at one of the skulls.

“Shot when the insurgents took the city.”  I prodded up a wrist  “Their hands were bound.  They killed thousands of people.  The roads were littered.  And they strafed the refugees.  It was so bad that the Italian Ambassador complained about it and the Duce told them to cut it out.”

Challie said nothing, and we made our way across the grisly grove.   Eventually we found the road and flagged the tram, offering a story in poor Spanish about having been abandoned by another English Reporter who had a car.

I wasn’t thrilled about the way that Challie was dressed.  In trousers and a shirt, she looked very much like one of the Left working women, and that had the potential to cause trouble. 

Once we got back into the city limits, some Civil Guards boarded the tram, and were very interested in my identification papers.

“They are wet.” The Guard said in Spanish.

“Sweat” I said.  He looked unconvinced, and I talked about the English Consul.  Eventually they decided to let us go on.  I was surprised he wasn’t more interested in Challie, but we seemed to be lucky. 

Challie had rooms at the Universal, and I got her to the lobby, then headed to the Continental.  When I reached the hotel, there was a message waiting from Duq Gavito.  He would send a car to pick us up at six.  The telephone was working after a fashion and I phoned Challie with the information.  I couldn’t think of anything much more innocuous than the fact that we were dining with a Grandee. 

Nobody tried to have us arrested.  We’d decided to keep separate hotels on the grounds that it gave us a relatively innocuous alibi for not having come in during the night.   I didn’t know how long we’d be in Malaga, but late nights weren’t uncommon in our line of work.

*   *   *

The Duque’s car was an elegant Delage, a luxurious black car with classic lines and a  hardtop.  His chauffeur was a Moor who didn’t speak, but opened the doors with military precision. 

I’d say Challie looked like a different person, but she always looked pretty good, just a little less tired.  She’d pulled out a red and black floral print with sleeves finished with faille, the sort of thing a woman might were to a garden party or with a cape in the evening.  The back was cut in a plunging “v” almost down to the waist and she affected the slouch Fedora that Garbo had made famous, in black with a red crepe band.   

The Duque had a place well to the north, closer to Seville.  We were in for a long automobile ride, over bad roads, but with few delays.  The driver blew the horn furiously at anything in our path, and overwhelmingly we were allowed to pass.  The Delage with its stylish cowling and twelve cylinders served as a testament to our likely legitimacy, and the few stops that we made were perfunctory.   Even so, there were stretches where we made little more than ten or fifteen miles per hour, and it was dark before we reached the Castle Malfereta.

The Spanish countryside was desolate.  It was either barren or beautiful depending on how you thought of it.  It reminded me of the Holy Land, Palestine and Transjordan. Grey granite rocks broke through the yellow earth, hillsides climbed starkly to the sky their lines unbroken by trees, covered only with grey herbs.  Before the war there were flocks of goats on those hills, but now we saw only a few, and I did not know where they had gone, whether they had all been slaughtered for food, or were being kept in some corral for greater safety.

“Impressive place,” said Challie.

I gave it a good hard look.  “Not bad.”

Challie gave a snort.  “It’s a castle.”

“Yes,” I said.  “I grew up in a tiny little place called Blackburn during the summers.  Just me, Grandmum, and about eighty staff.  Forty inside and forty outside if I recall.”

“You grew up in a castle?”

“Well, Blackburn was a house, really.  But there was an old castle nearby.  It was abandoned after the Civil War I think, or sort of slowly fell apart.  In 1721 they built Blackburn House, and razed most of the Castle structures.  Very nice place.  Here, they’re still really living in the Medieval keep, though they’ve added a hall and made it a bit more modern.”

“Beats a cold water flat.”  Challie gestured at the walls now drawing nearer.  We’d crested a ridge and were climbing the hill that formed the base of the old Citadel of Malfereta.

“You weren’t raised in a cold water flat.  Where were you raised?”

“Charleston mostly.  It’s a seaport in the South.  Nice town, very dignified.  Probably the only reason I can stand you.”

“You can stand me now?  That’s an improvement.”

“Barely.  What can you tell about this place?”

“Good Lord.  Not very much.  Squarish stone towers, not very Moorish.   That back tower that’s round, that’s probably Moorish work.  Some of this is older than the Moors.  There’s a nice central villa, it looks like probably built in the 17th century when we let ours go to ruin.  Very worn, looks like most of it was built out of Ashlar limestone.  It’s not a bad place I suppose.”

“How complimentary.”

The car rolled across a defensive ditch on a drawbridge, and pulled around a drive.  I was more impressed by the inside.  The central villa was more modern than the walls and towers, and featured rounded arches with very delicate mullions, intricate medallions, and elaborate vaulting in a star-pattern.  

The Duq received us on the patio in the center of the villa.  There were signs around that there was a war on.  Some broken masonry was piled in the corner, and some of the areas that would normally be gardens were covered with burlap fabric, presumably not having been planted in the spring. 

A few of the olive trees and lemon trees were damaged and an empty trellis showed the stumps of a grapevine which must have died, whether from the machinations of war or the ravages of time and chance I had no idea.

Still, the place was beautiful, lit by a few lanterns.  An earthenware fountain burbled comfortably, and there were beds of flowers, hidden in the night, huge zinnias catching a bit of lantern light and sunflowers hulking against the garden wall as if they were sentries.  The scent of the night blooming flowers, the heavy datura, and the intoxicating smell of the little green dama-del-noches blossoms lay on the air like an opiated perfume.

Duq Gavito sat in a wicker chair of the sort one might find in Morocco wearing an immaculate white linen suit.  He rose with a stiff precision when we were shown onto the patio, and greeted us in warm tones, kissing Challie’s hand, and offering me a slight bow, which I returned.

“Now I shall enjoy cultured company,” he said.  “A well traveled American and an English gentleman.”

“I’ve traveled plenty, but calling Neil a gentleman may be a stretch” said Challie.

“He means by birth, I am sure,” I said, “rather than inclination.  I’ve a reputation as a scoundrel you see.” 

“Yes…”  The Duque’s English was more polished and less accented than General Quiepo’s, though he still carried the undercurrent of Spanish which gave his “y” more of the sound of the English “j”.  He continued “That makes you more interesting, I think.  We are very distantly related of course.”

“Of course,” I agreed.  He would see if I knew the degree of our relationship.  “William Seddell married the fourth daughter of Queen Juana of Castile.  Their daughter, Elizabeth Seddell married the 4th Earl of Blackburn.  You’re descended from Queen Juana on several counts, including the Habsburgs.  But you are mostly a Bourbon?”  I had done a bit of research as well.

“Yes.  Now a little something to drink…and please let us sit.”

A butler in a perfectly good Saville suit brought us a tray.  Amontillado, which didn’t surprise me, being in Andalusia.  The vintage was from Huelva, twenty years old, and probably stored in the castle cellar.  Just about perfect for a Sherry. 

“So I would not be mistaken in guessing you are a Carlist?”

“Yes…” again the slight accent.  “Of course.  You might not find my politics so very far from yours.  I support Xavier Bourbon-Parma.”

“Just what exactly is a Carlist,” asked Challie.  “You’re going to have to forgive me, but Spain has about twenty too many political parties for me to keep track of.  Carlists are monarchists?”

“Yes…” said the Duque.  “But rather disadvantaged ones.  The Carlist Kings are the rightful rulers of Spain.  But the most recent Kings were Alphonsines.  It’s a dispute going back to the time of Napoleon, and there have been several wars over it.   In this day and time, the Carlists are split between moderate Republicans, and rabid Catholics.  I support Xavier Bourbon-Parma, who has just been named as the Regent, by Don Alfonso, the old claimant.”

“Who supports a British style constitutional monarchy, or did before the war,” I concluded.  “And is somewhat sympathetic to the Socialists”

“Yes…I am not so conservative as you might think.  But I must support the Falange now.  To resist them would be pointless.  And the mobs.  They are not Socialist or Republican, they are simply mobs.  They besieged the house for two days before the Tercio came and relived us.  If they’d had any real weapons they would have had us out.  All of the servants were loyal and defended the towers with some old hunting rifles.  They tried to burn us down, but there is nothing but scrub on the hillside, and they could not get across the defensive ditch.  They had found a mortar and shot it at us a few times, but they could not hit anything.   They finally got one shot inside the courtyard here, but of course it did not hurt anyone.”

“Sounds quite the adventure, seeing as it ended well.”

“I did not like to kill them but they were rabble.  They were very bold at first, but I shot three of their leaders with a .375 hunting rifle, and they thought better of it.  They had some machine guns, but they could not get them in range or make very much use of them, and I don’t think they had any ammunition.  Most of the peasantry are abysmal shots even if you do give them a gun.”

“It ended fairly well for you, anyway,” said Challie.  She seemed to be taunting him, which wasn’t her normal behavior.  Like many Americans she’d sometimes raise arguments of egalitarianism that were best left alone under the circumstances.  But she wasn’t heavily given to that weakness.

“Yes, Senora.  It ended well for me.  As I said, I did not like to kill them.  If you wish me to display more emotion, I am afraid I cannot.  They were rabble I never met, and they were quite willing to burn my home and murder me, and probably many of my retainers into the bargain for no other crime than working for me.  I support the moderate Socialists, and I did not support the Coup.  But it happened, and there is little I can do to stop it.  I will go only so far to cut my own throat.”

“Have you killed a lot of men?” asked Challie.  I had no idea what she was getting at, though something about her behavior struck me as odd.  And familiar. 

“Some,” said the Duque.  “Not so very many.  It is not a thing to be taken lightly, but if it must be done, you do not very much regret it.  If you will regret it, then you perhaps should not do it in the first place.  How about you Senora?  You have killed men, I think.”

I heard Challie’s breath catch a little.  She looked down at the brick of the patio. 

“Yes.  A few.”

The Duque gave a careful short nod.

The butler returned and presented a box of cigarettes to Challie.  I couldn’t tell what they were, but I suspected she couldn’t afford to be any more particular than I could, and that they were something rather good.  The Duque and I were presented with cigars without asking, short Ramon Allones.  The Butler handed me a neat little gold knife to cut with, then passed the same to the Duque.  I’d as soon have had a cigarette, but wasn’t going to protest a decent cigar.  The sherry was going to my head, and we wandered off on threads of politics, war, and the situation in Spain.

Challie was very quiet, throwing in only an occasional word or comment. 

She was the one to finally get to business.

“So, your Grace..”

“Excellency,” I inserted.  “His Excellency is a Grandee of the First Order I believe?”  The Duque made a gesture with his hands to show that it was not so important as that. 

“Excellency,” Challie continued without missing much of a beat.  “We came to Spain for a reason.  I think you know what that is.”

“Perhaps,” he said “I do.  But I think it would be good of you to tell me.”

“The Sword,” said Challie.

The Duque raised his eyebrow at her.

“The sword of Roncevalles,” I said.  “The sword of the Paladin Roland.”

“Yes, yes…let me ask you something my friends.  Do you have the faintest idea what that sword is, and what it is capable of?”

“I have an idea,” I said. “But suppose you tell me.”

“No…no, you would not believe me if I spoke to you of it.  You either know or you do not.  At any rate you do not intend to keep the sword for yourselves.”

“No,” I said.  “We don’t.”

“Then it means little to you.”

”Why don’t you get the sword yourself?” asked Challie.

“Gaining the sword would be very dangerous,” replied the Duque.  “I am not adverse to adventure.  But…if I were to gain the sword, I would make many enemies.  And the sword will not defend against an assassin’s bullet, or a slow poison.  No, I do not think that it is something that I want to have.  Nor if I were you would I keep it for very long.  If you are able to gain it, which is, I am afraid, very unlikely.”

“Why are you willing to help us get it?” she continued.

“I have not said that I was.  I was willing to meet with you and discuss it.”

“Are you willing to help?” I asked.

“Perhaps.  I have very much enjoyed your company.”

“What do you want,” I asked.  “I can offer some money now, more later.  Moving anything is hard here, you know that.  If you have an account at Gibraltar or Lisbon it would be easier.  Other things of course…we could arrange papers if things do not go well for you here…”

The Duque gave a laugh which sounded a little bitter.  “My friends.  I will live or die here, I have no intention of going anywhere. This is my home.  The home of my family.  As for money.  Well, yes, that is something.  One cannot have too much of it now, especially English money.  I wish I were not dependent on it, but…the safety of this place is an expensive proposition.”

“So…what can we do to induce you?”

“I am not certain, Mr. Hawkins, that there is anything you can do.”

I puffed on my cigar.  I saw what he meant of course.  I wondered if Challie was getting it.

“Now my friends, it is late.  As much as I have enjoyed your company, I should retire.  Alvaro will show you to your rooms, whenever you are ready.”

We all agreed that we should adjourn then, and we followed the Duque’s serving man to our rooms.   He showed me into a pleasant room, with a high canopy bed, and sturdy country furnishings probably not less than a century old.  My valise had already been brought up.  He guided Challie down the hall and I poked my head back out to watch where she was taken.  He showed her a chamber some distance from mine, and as she was going in, he bent over to say something to her.  She nodded and slipped into the room.

I gave ten minutes and knocked on the door softly.  Challie opened it without speaking and pushed it closed behind me.

“What do you think?” I said.

She started to say something, then thought better of it, stopped, and started again.  “I think he’s honest.”

“I think he means what he says.  You got the meaning of that last transaction.  What he wants is you.”

“That’s at least something he wants,” said Challie. 

“I don’t like it.  What did the servant say to you?”

“That if I was interested in joining the Duque for a drink in the library, that he would enjoy the pleasure of my company.”

“You’d better be careful,” I said.

“Neil.  I’m a big girl.  I can take care of myself.”

“So you’re going.  Do you want me to back you up.”

“Of course I’m going.  I’m going for a drink the library not a firefight.  You’re the one who needs backup on your adventures.  No, I don’t want you eavesdropping.  Go to bed.  I’ll tell you what transpires in the morning.”

“I don’t like it.”

”Good God, I think you’re jealous.”

“Am not!”

“You are….”

I gave a sound that was a cross between a mutter and a growl.

“I like that.  It almost makes you human.  Now get to bed, maybe I’ll find something out.”

“I want to know everything that happens.”

“I’ll tell you,” said Challie, “everything that is relevant to our job.