The Cavalier's Mistress : A Dark Romance

I nodded to Marge, the waitress, as I slid into my usual booth in my usual lunchtime diner.

“The usual?” She asked as she stood poised with her pen above the pad.

I nodded. “You know me, Marge. The fewer decisions I have to make, the better I like it.”

Marge nodded. “BLT, low-fat mayo, fruit salad on the side, ice tea,” she recited as she wrote. “Whatcha’ readin’ today?” she asked as I pulled my latest paperback romance out of my purse. If it were anyone else, I’d hesitate. I’d learned early in my career that people looked askance at holders of master’s degrees in Medieval and Renaissance Studies who read torrid historical romances, but Marge shared my love of bodice-rippers.

“The Cavalier’s Mistress,” I responded. I showed her the cover, which depicted a voluptuous young woman with flowing black hair in a peasant blouse and peasant skirt leaning back in the arms of a dark-haired man with rippling chest muscles visible through the open front of his peasant shirt. Historical accuracy was never a consideration in the cover art of this genre, but that poetic license was what appealed to me. I had enough of historical accuracy in my professional life. I craved adventure, excitement, and even danger in my fantasy world.

She sighed. “It looks so romantic. Too bad there aren’t men like that around anymore. Least, I can’t seem to meet any.”

I laughed, “Me, either,” I replied ungrammatically, but honestly. Although, being neither voluptuous nor particularly young, with lank mousy hair, I was unlikely to attract any men like that if I were to meet them. But a girl can dream, can’t she?

I opened the book and once again lost myself in the fictional passion and enchantment of an imagined seventeenth-century until Marge arrived with my lunch. As I ate, I pondered the assignment I’d been given that morning. I’d looked blank when my boss, the museum curator, asked me to create an exhibit to celebrate the four-hundredth anniversary of Felipe Sotelo Osorio becoming governor of New Mexico under Spain.

“Felipe who?” I’d asked.

She’d laughed. “That’s the reason for the exhibit! No one has heard of him today, but he was quite the celebrity back then. Apparently, he was the bad boy of the governors. He was even accused of heresy before the Inquisition in Mexico City.”

“Really?!” Now I was intrigued. I liked the sound of ‘the bad boy of the governors.’ Maybe my fantasy life and my professional life were about to intersect. “What happened? Was he burned at the stake?” I had tried not to sound too hopeful.

She’d smiled as she shook her head. “No, the accusations were made in 1628 and he was governor until 1630. I would like the focus to be on the charges of heresy, though, as that’s what makes him different from the other Spanish governors.” She’d handed me a sheaf of papers. “These are copies of the original accusations, along with a translation.”

“Good. My Spanish is not bad, but that antique handwriting … I couldn’t even read it if it were in English. I’m sure I’ll find something in here to inspire me.”

“What’s important is that you make him come alive for today’s visitors. You only have to fill the one case — armor, weapons, that kind of thing — and provide explanatory text, of course.”

That was going to be the real challenge, making a short-term governor from four hundred years ago ‘come alive’ for a modern audience. I’d spend the afternoon reading through the transcripts of the accusations and, with any luck, inspiration would strike.

***

My eyes were heavy, my brain felt fuzzy, and my head ached when I got to the museum the next day. I’d had a hard time getting to sleep, ideas about how to make Sotelo “come alive” running through my mind. And then I’d awakened just a few hours later, sweating and terrified and tangled in the sheets. My heart was racing and I was breathing rapidly and shallowly as strains of vaguely familiar guitar music faded away. I knew that I’d been dreaming, but I couldn’t recall anything other than that the dream had frightened and excited me, all at the same time. I knew I wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep, so I got up and tried to read another of my romances, but it hadn’t help. This time, I found the charming rogue who attempted to seduce the virginal heroine more genuinely dangerous than titillating.

After I dropped off my purse at my desk, I headed for my boss’s office. The door was open, so I knocked and walked in.

“Good morning,” she said brightly.

I groaned. “Not sure there’s anything good about it.”

She looked at me more closely. “You don’t look good, at that. Are you feeling all right? Do you want to take the day off?”

I shook my head, gently. “No, just a bad night. I stayed late reading all of the documentation and had a hard time winding down when I got home.” Which was true, as far as it went.

“Have a seat and tell me what you’ve learned.”

It felt good to sit in the upholstered chair. Even though I’d been promoted to associate curator, I still had the same old mesh office chair at the same old desk. “Well, as you said, he was the ‘bad boy’ of the governors, at least by the standards of the times. He was accused of being anti-Catholic, and reportedly said that he’d rather ‘deal with the devil in Hell’ than with priests and monks. A couple of his men accused him of ordering the men under his command to stop worshiping God and start worshiping him.”

“How so?” She looked skeptical.

I shook my head. “I’m not Catholic, but as I understand it, there’s a part of the mass where everyone is supposed to kneel…”

“The Sanctus.” She was Catholic.

“Yeah, that sounds right. So, anyway, Sotelo came into mass late one day, which I gather was not unusual, and had a hissy fit because the soldiers didn’t stand at his entrance. It’s one of the reasons he was charged with heresy.”

“Ah, that would do it. Anything else?”

“He is supposed to have claimed to be braver than St. George — him I know — and St. Dionisio, whoever he was. Oh, and he gave permission for what they called ‘an Indian witch from San Juan’ to cure a case of bewitchment using her own magic spells.”

“I see,” she nodded slowly. “That would also have been considered heresy.”

“And, one more thing. He was accused of immorality for living with a young woman without benefit of clergy, as they say.” I grinned and shrugged. “But none of the accusations resulted in charges. I don’t know why not. He certainly seemed to be guilty according to the testimony of the witnesses.” I stood. “I’m antsy to get started on the exhibit. I think I’ve got a handle on it.”

“Great! I told them in storage you’d be down this morning to select artifacts for the exhibit. They said they’d pull some items for you.”

“Thanks,” I said as I turned to leave. “That’ll help.”

“And remember,” she said as I left the office. “We want you to bring him to life for the visitors.”

***

Museum storage always reminds me of the warehouse in “Raiders of the Lost Ark,” only nothing like nearly as big. Row after row of shelving stacked with gray archival boxes and bins and oversized envelopes. Today, the big worktable in the middle of the room held a morion, a cuirass, and a long sword, all made from steel. The curator’s assistant appeared suddenly from one of the aisles.

“I thought I heard someone come in,” he said. “This stuff is all the right period for your display. I haven’t had a chance to get any clothing, but I know we have stuff.”

I nodded. “Yeah, thanks for pulling it, but … it’s not right.” How did I know that with such certainty? I shivered inwardly. There had been no physical descriptions of Sotelo in the documentation that I had read.

“No? Okay. What would be right?” He looked surprised at my unusual decisiveness.

I hesitated. “I’m not sure … he was a governor of New Mexico … I mean, he would have owned all of this, but … he wouldn’t have worn it everyday. It was heavy and hot and uncomfortable.” I paused as a vivid image flashed across my mind. “What I need is a bright red cape, with fur trim. Mid-thigh length. And hose — you know, like tights, also red, but not so bright, and thigh-high black leather boots. Spanish breeches, red and gold, doublet to match with wide slashed sleeves, a small ruff at the neck. Nothing too high. They were scratchy, you know.” I paused. “And a Cavalier hat, black, with a long ostrich plume.”

“Not even the sword?”

I shook my head with uncharacteristic confidence. “The sword was only if he was going into battle or meeting dignitaries, to remind them that he was a soldier as well as governor. For everyday wear, a rapier, jeweled handle, in a black leather sheath.”

He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. “Shouldn’t be a problem. We have several of those. It’ll make a good display. Lots of color. You wanna’ come back in half an hour?”

“Yeah, I could do with a cup of coffee. See ya’ in thirty,” I said. Thank goodness he wasn’t the type to ask a lot of questions. Questions I wouldn’t be able to answer, even to myself. Such as where that detailed image had come from and how I had known he carried a rapier.

***

The clothing was laid out on the table when I returned, feeling marginally more alert thanks to a double macchiato. The assistant was waiting for me this time. He gave me a questioning look when I got to the table, silently asking if it was right this time.

“It’s absolutely perfect!” I said in amazement. It looked exactly like my vision. A vision I couldn’t account for, but was learning to accept, if reluctantly.

“Strange thing,” he said. “The pieces were all stored where they belonged, with similar items, but each of these was labeled ‘of an unknown Spaniard’.”

I looked at him quizzically. It was my turn to ask the silent question.

“You know,” he explained. “’Boots of an unknown Spaniard,’ that sort of thing. Even stranger, they are all the same size. I mean, they look like they’d fit the same person.”

So now I not only instinctively knew what he would have worn, I instinctively knew what was in the collections of the museum. I laughed nervously and tried to break the tension with a joke. “Even the rapier?”

He didn’t laugh in return. “The scabbard is on a belt and, yeah, the belt is pretty much the right size for the waist of the breeches. They’re in damned good shape for fabric four hundred years old. How did you know we had these?”

I shrugged. “Just a lucky guess.” Or a dream. But a dream from where? He nodded, but still looked skeptical.

We carefully packed the items, separated by layers of acid-free tissue paper, in a large archival box and put it on a wheeled cart that I rolled to the staff elevator. I pushed the call button and turned to thank him again while I waited for the elevator to descend, but he had disappeared into the catacombs.

I rolled the cart into the elevator and pushed the button for the second floor where the Spanish Colonial exhibits were housed. I wheeled the cart out and down the aisles between exhibits to where a portable screen hid the empty display case. Well, it was empty except for the mannequin I had requested.

Handling the clothing with the care needed with four-hundred-year-old fabric, even fabric as unusually well-preserved as this was, I carefully dressed the mannequin. I was not surprised to find that the items all fit perfectly. Apparently, I had instinctively known what size mannequin would be needed. I puffed out the breeches and the sleeves with crumpled tissue paper and buckled the belt around the waist with the rapier on the left side, as in my ‘vision.’ I draped the cape over the right shoulder and folded it back over the left so that the rapier could be seen in all its jeweled glory, and finally, I tilted the Cavalier hat at just the right rakish angle on the head.

I stood back and considered my handiwork. Everything fit together perfectly, color, style, and size, almost as if the items had been waiting all these centuries to be reunited. Of course, to be complete, he really needed thick, curly black hair. And a mustache … no, wait, a full Van Dyke, framing straight white teeth.

I shook my head to clear my brain. Where did I get that? There were no known portraits. Just my imagination, I guess, or the cover of a bodice-ripper. Or a dream something whispered, but I shoved the thought away.

As I pushed the cart back toward the elevator, I thought heard guitar chords reverberating in the distance. I shook my head. My imagination was working overtime. Must be my lack of sleep. I reached the elevator and descended, then returned to my office to spend the rest of the day and early evening working on the text for the signage.

***

My sleep was disturbed again by dreams — or should I say nightmares? -- that lingered on the fringes of consciousness as glimpses of red and gold, flashes of violent emotion, and faint strains of music. So, I wasn’t in the best of moods when my boss called me into her office as I passed by her door the next morning.

“Just let me put down my purse,” I said, and kept walking. I stowed my purse in the top drawer and headed back to her office. I went in and sat in the chair facing her desk without being invited. It was that kind of mood.

She leaned across the desk and handed me the piece of paper. “Is this the text that you wrote for the exhibit?”

I skimmed it and nodded. “Yes, I emailed it to you last night before I went home.” I didn’t add that I had stayed late yet again. She could see that from the time stamp.

She nodded and reached out for the paper. I handed it to her. “I wanted to be sure. What were you thinking?” She looked down at the paper, “I’ll skip the factual information. It’s correct. But this?” She read, “Felipe Sotelo Osorio was an innocent victim of lies, rumors, and hearsay propagated by malicious soldiers seeking revenge for the legitimate punishments he imposed on them for theft, drunkenness, and whoremongering.’” She shook her head. “Where did you get this? You didn’t say anything like this yesterday. In fact, you said pretty much the opposite.” She leaned back in her chair and waited for me to respond.

“I told you that the Holy Office didn’t charge him with anything,” I responded defensively. “And that the charges were mostly hearsay. Even the ones that weren’t were distorted to make him look bad. They were just a bunch of gandules who hated him because he was a strong leader who didn’t put up with their bad behavior. And they were jealous that he was so popular with the women.” I paused and closed my eyes a moment. My head was throbbing. I rubbed my temples. She was right to ask me where I got this. I couldn’t remember. Had I read it or had I dreamed it? When I opened my eyes, my boss was looking at me sympathetically.

“Bad night again?”

I nodded.

“Why don’t you go home and try to get some rest? I think the lack of sleep may be responsible for this,” she held up the paper. “You can rewrite it tomorrow, when you’re in a better condition. The exhibit doesn’t open for another two weeks, so there’s time. Heaven knows you’ve got enough personal leave saved up.”

I nodded, then stood. “You’re probably right.”

I retrieved my purse and headed home. She was right that I needed to catch up on sleep. She was wrong that lack of sleep was responsible for what I had written.

***

When I woke from my nap, such as it was, it was dark. I didn’t feel rested or refreshed. The dreams had continued, even more intensely. Images flashed through my waking mind of white teeth framed by a black beard and mustache, dark eyes peering deeply into mine, and of stepping to the lively beat of a canario, surrounded by swirling red and gold. I remembered the professor in the class on Renaissance music describing it as a “fiery wooing dance,” with its passionate and vibrant rhythm. I also remembered tripping over my own feet, as usual, trying to execute the steps along with the rest of the class.

I felt a compulsion to drive to the museum and check on the exhibit immediately. I had no idea why. I had visited it before I left, and it was as perfect as I remembered. The museum had excellent security. There was no reason to think that anything had happened to the display since I had seen it last, but I found myself in the car, heading toward the museum. The urge to see the exhibit again grew stronger the closer I got.

As I arrived at the building, I could see flickering lights, like flames, in the windows. I parked and pulled out my phone to call 911, but then I realized that the flames were small and distinct and restricted to the second floor. They seemed to beckon to me. I dropped the phone back into my purse and headed for the employees’ entrance. I fumbled with trembling hands for my keycard. My hands were shaking so much that I it took me three tries to insert it into the lock. The urge to visit the exhibit had become an imperative.

I went up the staff elevator to the second floor. As the doors opened, I saw that the lights were the flames of dozens of thick candles on tall candlesticks encircling the center of the floor. They flickered in time to the eerie melody of the canario played on unseen instruments, punctuated by the sharp clack of invisible castañuelas. Everything outside of the reach of the candlelight was in deep shadow that was uniform and boundless. The exhibits had disappeared, as well as the walls and ceiling of the museum.

I moved slowly forward, in a daze, my feet moving of their own accord in time to the music. And then I saw him coming toward me through the candlelight, resplendent in his red and gold, white teeth gleaming through his black mustache and beard. Passion surged through me, the same thrilling passion that had filled my dreams. I knew him as the man in my dreams. I had made him come alive and he had done the same for me. Made me come alive in a way that no man had before.

He stopped and removed his hat with a flourish, revealing a head of thick, curly black hair, then executed a perfect bow, one leg in front of the other, his cape draped over his extended arm. “Bienvenidos, señorita,” he said in his sonorous voice, and stood up, holding out his arms toward me. “¿Bailamos?”

And I walked forward into his embrace.