Entre las dos Almas
Chapter Three
Condesita de Cataluna
A high backed padded chair was the focus of the small
office-like room. It was a great wooden thing, padded in luxurious dark leather
studded with brass and silver. The young lady who sat in it was peculiar, pale
angled face and willowy features. Her white-blonde hair hung down her back like
a waterfall, unbound and elegant. It was a contrast to her near black brows,
that crossed over her brown. A lighter shade shadowed that brow underneath,
just slightly lighter brown. It gave her air of disdain, cultured disdain, but
it was there none-the-less, heightened by the frightening cold glare of icy
blue eyes. It made her at once seem old and prejudiced, when she was really but
a girl.
Deep in thought she let the shadows pass through the room about
her, ignoring the passing time as though it were an irrelevent and pointless
thing. Busy fingers moved deftly across her desk, biding time with an elegant
tapping sound that seemed to count of the seconds. Candlelight flickered from
the chandelier above sending cascades of variable light across the faces long
ago frescoed into the ceiling for the comfort of any who cared look upward, not
that the young woman found such cultured things any use. The ceiling was the
only painted spot in the room, the fortress being of stone. The stone was what
made it strong. It protected her world, and this was of importance. Underneath
the rich facade it was an alcazar, a castilla and this pleased her more than
the rich adornment of tapestries entitled to her by rank and birth.
This woman's fortress was one of the many palacios in Barcelona.
It was a rich port town, full of rich people and their works, ruled over by the
minor groups of aristocrats of graceful birth such as herself that congregated
in la Plaza de Cataluna. Isolated by the Mediteraneo, the Pireneos, and the
surrounding foothills, the Catalunians lived in an uneasy bliss after only two
centuries of freedom from Moros.
Through the narrow window she could see the business of the people on
the street, peasants to her.
Noisy, clamorous markets, ship builders, fishermen, and sailors; they
were an annoyance, but they were hers.
It had connections. A
trading port was a good place to rule.
It was also a place well worth being known and a place worthy of
ruling the Western hemisphere. The young woman smirked in her chair where she
sat. That was precisely what she wanted. As a Condesita de Barcelona, Dama
Dorotea de Cataluna would have just that, and no person or thing was about to
stand in her way. She would betray God himself to get her way- sell her soul to
the Devil. She smiled briefly, letting the expression paint itself on then
quickly fade, like the swiftly setting sun. Happiness was a passing gesture,
useless, but pleasant. A sigh passed from her lips, body shifting with the
heavy exhale of breath from frustration and boredom.
Gloved white fingers shuffled the letters strewn carelessly
about her desk, the useless ones carefully tossed aside where they would give
her no further annoyance. Those that were important she placed neatly before
her, taking care not to misplace them admist the piles of rubbish from her
various suitors and admirers, invitations to cenar and other such useless
nonsense. She didn't have time to be plagued by the pursuit of the common
gentlemen and their ladies. She had a world to dominate-after a fashion.
"Nothing interesting."
A knock came at the door, which Dorotea insisted remain shut despite the difficulty in opening it because of its heavy make. The sound echoed in the room and the countess reveled in it. Dark, forboding … thump, thump, like muffled hoofbeats.
"Who is it?"
"It's Alfonso, Dama."
"Pesky cousin," she muttered, flicking her hair and standing, letting it all fall like golden water down her back.
"Dama, I've a letter for you."
"Criste, open the door. Don't daudle outside like a fool waiting for trouble."
She heard a grunt, as the door creaked open. There really should be two men opening that door, but Alfonso could handle it on his own. He was always trying to prove his place in the court, wheedle his way into power.
At least, Dorotea saw it that way. She didn't take well to young Alfonso's mild ways. Neither did her uncle, so he sent the boy to her.
Alfonso passed through the thin opening in the door like a shadow, breathing heavily from unfamiliar exhertion. Shoulders slacked, his chest heaved, as though he had ran all the way up the steep steps.
"Urgent business? You know you really shouldn't stand that way. Its uncultured. You look like an animal."
The youth straightened, and tossed some blond hair from his face. Dorotea watched amused. Young Alfonso was a shadow of the condesita in everything, from the more gray tone of his eyes, to the sandy streaks in his hair, to his thin, girlish frame. The only thing he did not shadow her in was his character. No, that was all his own. The poor coward was supposed to be a knight. There would be no roads to glory for Alfonso, despite being named after the king.
The youth offered the letter in his trembling hand. The icy woman scowled at the trembling. Another sign of weakness. "Its from Bordeaux, dama."
"From whom?"
"La Dama Une de Burgundia."
Lady Une of Burgundy?
And she was in Bordeaux.
Yes, this was important. The place was unfamiliar, but the name was a
vital acquaintance.
Dorotea held out her hand for the letter. The sandy haired young man dropped it carefully and then stood and watched like a mule.
"You may be excused, Alfonso," she said irritably, laying the letter on her desk between her hands.
The boy nodded and squeezed again through the door, shutting it with a loud thump. Dorotea meanwhile, turned her full attention to the letter from the Lady.
Dame Jeanne-Helene Une was a noble-born French-woman that the
younger woman had met in her brief schooling in the city of Paris. At the time,
the frosty blond had been a young, naive daughter of the former Count of
Barcelona. Her nature had been pure, simple, and unspoiled. She was deeply
captivated by the Church and by God, and spent much of her time wandering the
halls of Notre Dame and other such religious places, strengthening her faith
while become a "finished" noblewoman.
Then the news came to her: The Moors had attacked her beloved
province and the grand city she called home. Her noble and wonderful father,
who had been to her the very essence and soul of her life and world was killed
doing his duty as the provicial leader. Perhaps he was too noble, perhaps to
bold; but he was murdered by the hands of heathens. Killed dead by unforgiving
invaders with the name of El Almohad.
How she had learned to hate them then. The had plucked her
precious father from her, and she still had to remain in Paris. A deep feeling
a revenge had been stowed in her and God was put away. What kind of a God would
let such a kind and honorable man as her father die? She had grown bitter and
remorseful, allowing her heart to become like a hardened old man's, something
entirely unsuitable for a woman of affluence.
Then she had met Dame Une. It had been a chance run in on the
street. The older woman had knocked her off the feet, causing her to curse in
her own native tongue. The brunnette had then replied that the words were
unbecoming of a lady and they formed a friendship ever since. The frosty woman
had always admired Lady Une's politics-picking up a foreign tongue to satisfy
political motives was dangerous and fascinating indeed. A noble who was not
afraid of danger to one's health, wealth, or position was someone truly to be
admired in this world. It was again, one of the Lady's own ideals, but the
Condesita firmly agreed with her.
As it was, Dame Une had become her mentor, teaching her to hold
her tongue but never be afraid to take action in her country's benefit, as it
would see to her own. The lady had made her ambitious, molding the guilt and
revenge of her naive mind into something more calm and calculated. The Lady taught
her to wear the mask of a gambler, to bluff, and to move slowly and
deliberately, allowing one's enemies to walk themselves into checkmate. She
taught her that a woman had her own influence in society, and its subtleties
were far more powerful than the brute show of strength than modern men were
want to abuse. Dame Une had taught Dorotea how dangerous a small word could be,
and it had opened up worlds of opportunity in the wake of a true tragedy.
La Condesita de Barcelona de Cataluna had returned home far the
better for the experience.
Delicately, the young woman lifted the letter between thumb and
forefinger, opening it with a sharp movement by her right hand. With maddening
interest she on folded the parchment to reveal its dated contents, nimbly peeling
back the remains of the torn wax seal.
// Dame Une, what do you have to say? // thought Dorotea,
glancing at the Catalan script.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Querida Dama Dorotea,
I hope that this letter has reached you with good health and a
height of ambition.
It is my pleasure to inform you that I have left the confines of
Paris, and am currently situated in Bordeaux. It is my plan to meet you in
Andorra within the month, weather permitting.
I have acquisitioned the help of His Excellency, Treize
Khushrenada. As he is of high-born descent it is my prompt assumption that you
would be willing to make his acquaitance. As to His Excellency, he is bringing with
him an officer of high regard that may help put to rest any fear the Moorish
invaders have instilled in your people. They are a menace to the entire
Mediterraen coast and the Spanish Alliance has not been effective in its
Reconquest efforts.
I hope that you do not think my efforts too forward, but you
yourself have made intonations of war agaist your own nation, let alone the
Berbers. It is my hope that this assistance can be of mutual benefit to the
both of us, Condesita.
Again, my regards to your well-being,
Dame Jeanne-Helene Une
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The letter brought a sinister grin to her features. It was to be
done then. Cataluna was to be the most powerful force in Spain-no the world- if
Dorotea had her way in things, and she would have her way in things.
She glanced at the page again, curious as to this Treize
Khushrenada and his unknown officer. She found it utterly fascinating that her
friend would go behind her back in a matter such as this, but then she was
prone to pulling strings without informing any of her intimate circle members.
It was something Dorotea had been forced to become used to with time. Besides,
Lady Une would not have recommended any person of ill repoire, but her mind
wound in circles. What kind of power did His Excellency wield? Was it truly
enough to fuel the most fantastic war of the century as Dame Une suggested?
// War ... //
The word had never quite resounded in her mind before, at least
not in this context. She had read the Scriptures, of the Holy Wars and other
battle stories passed on by monks and historians, but had never until now
considered the possibility.
What a superior way to make own's country the ultimate force in
the world! War ... She curled the word on her tongue, fondling it as the idea
fell more firmly in her brain. Yes, war was what she wanted; Not the petty
battles that the castillanos fought against the Moorish invaders, no. She
wanted more than an escape from an oppressor. She wanted the kind of war that
people talked about for ages after it has passed. War that makes one's memory
shudder with the horror and wonder that such atrocities could ever occur. A war
that would make Cataluna superior forever, with epics like the Illiad written
in its wake.
She smiled, delicate lips seeming cruel and unforgiving.
/ /War ... What a beautiful, horrible word.//
She lowered her brows, staring intently at the parchment with
its ink-stained letters and wonderful, glorious words. A new type of fanaticism
had grown in her eyes. Among the winter shards of cruelty and power hunger came
the spirals and twists of megalomania and worse ... Oh what a wondrous door the
Lady's letter had opened. She would have to thank her personally in Andorra.
Andorra, yes ... That was where she was to go. Clutching the
letter she stood, boots clicking acrossed the cold stones of the office floor.
Step, step- each foot sounded like a triumphant cry- I will be victorious!
Frozen, horrid, beautiful eyes narrowed. //I will be
victorious.//
*****************************************************************************
Author's Notes:
1. Condesita/Condesa de Cataluna: The Contess of Catalonia. The
city of Barcelona, in Catalonia or the Mediteranean near the Pyrenees was run
by Counts. As appropriate to this story, Dorothy-Dorotea is one of the
Countesses. I am assuming that Condesita is the unmarried form of Condesa, as I
have seen it in previous works of literature.
2. Alcazar- um, an Arabic borrowed word for castle.
3. Dama/Dame: Spanish and French (respectively) for Lady.
4. Bordeaux: A major city in France, the only one anywhere near
the Spanish border.
5. Dame Jeanne-Helene Une: Joan Helen Une ... I really found it
necessary to give her a first name. I tried to find strong sounding French
names. Its prounounced- Zhahn Aylen, or something close. I didn't take French.
6. Andorra: A tiny little protectorate that's between France and Spain where they speak Catalan.
7. Berbers: Actually, what Quatre is in this script. More will
come in context but as I was informed and also double checked, the Berbers were
indeed the "blonde haired, blue eyed Arabs." The Berbers are from
Morrocco, Tunisia, and Libya for the most part. The palest are along the line
of the Middle Atlas Mts. As Moors, some follow a heretical doctrine called
Khajiri, which I am trying to find more info about. They have several
traditions that I am planning to incorporate which may "bother" some
readers, so be prepared, though I don't want to spoil the plot twist for you.
8. Cenar: to eat dinner.
Other Notes:
I have just finished A Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde, so some of you may notice the odd tone this section has taken. It was indeed, very inspired by that novel. Heh, Dorothy had become very Dorian and Une very Lord Henry-ish ... Sorry.
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