you get lost in this crowd, we will be hard put to it to find you.”
“I itch!” Rachel said. “Can we not rest in the shade before going on? My skin is prickling with the heat.” She tugged at the neck of her gown. Her cheeks were flushed dark red, and damp tendrils of hair lay plastered against her brow.
“Where would you have us rest?” I gestured at the packed plaza, in which it would have been hard to insert so much as a wooden staff between one person and the next.
“We must find a well,” Doña Marina said. Even she had dismounted. She picked her way through the crowd with dignity, one hand raising her skirts above the dust and the other resting lightly on her mule’s neck. “We must refill our water skins, or we will find ourselves fainting in this heat.” She patted delicately at her neck, cheeks, and forehead with a handkerchief trimmed with Flemish lace.
“Oh, yes!” Rachel said. “Water is what I wish for most, although I am hungry as well. Hernan, you are the tallest of us. Can you see a well? Look, over there. Is that not a fountain? I am sure I see the glint of spray rising in the sun.”
As all of us stopped and craned our necks, Rachel gave a cry of excitement, let go her mule’s bridle, and darted away from us into the crowd.
“Raquel!”
“Rachel, stop!”
As I started forward to run after her, something glittered at my feet. I bent and picked it up. It was Rachel’s silver cross, its chain broken. When I looked up, she had disappeared.
Chapter Eight
Cordoba, April 26, 1493
Rachel plunged forward, forgetting everything but her thirst. A plaza this big must surely have a great stone fountain, built atop a well, from which folk could draw water at any time. She was sure that she had seen the sparkle of spray. But when she had pushed past a multitude of people, none of them inclined to give way to her, she could see nothing resembling a fountain, only a vast sea of heads bobbing like ocean waves, interspersed with the canvas awnings of market carts like sails upon the sea. She must tell the others she had been mistaken. But when she turned, ready to retrace her steps, she could see no sign of Diego, Doña Marina, or the men.
To her right, a mule brayed and another answered. But when she elbowed her way through to them, she saw that they belonged to strangers. Then the sunlight glittered on a pair of metal helmets, but her hope that their wearers would prove to be Hernan and Esteban was dashed when she got close enough to see their faces. She stood still while the crowd eddied around her, biting her lip and trying not to cry. Diego would be so angry! She would endure any scolding he might give her for the sight of his face. How would he ever find her? There must be hundreds of people in the market. She didn’t know her way around Cordoba, not even in what direction the road to Seville lay. In any case, they would surely not continue their journey without making every effort to find her. If only they had chosen an inn first! She could have found someone to tell her how to get there. But they had not.
Perhaps she would spy the hoods and tunics of the hermandad . Surely a city as big as Cordoba maintained a company of the brothers to keep order. With luck, they had a central station where anyone who had lost some person or possession might ask if whom or what they searched for had been found. Or a troop of soldiers, at least one with a respectable captain, might be kind to a Christian girl. Rachel’s hand reached up to finger the silver cross she always wore. It was gone! She had dropped it somewhere in this teeming place, and she would never find it. That meant she could not ask any soldier for assistance, as he might serve the Inquisition. With it, she appeared a Christian, not worth a second glance. Without it, her olive skin, dark hair, and long, slender nose proclaimed the Jew. To be a Jew in Spain meant death. Neither youth nor pleading would save her.
She heard
“I itch!” Rachel said. “Can we not rest in the shade before going on? My skin is prickling with the heat.” She tugged at the neck of her gown. Her cheeks were flushed dark red, and damp tendrils of hair lay plastered against her brow.
“Where would you have us rest?” I gestured at the packed plaza, in which it would have been hard to insert so much as a wooden staff between one person and the next.
“We must find a well,” Doña Marina said. Even she had dismounted. She picked her way through the crowd with dignity, one hand raising her skirts above the dust and the other resting lightly on her mule’s neck. “We must refill our water skins, or we will find ourselves fainting in this heat.” She patted delicately at her neck, cheeks, and forehead with a handkerchief trimmed with Flemish lace.
“Oh, yes!” Rachel said. “Water is what I wish for most, although I am hungry as well. Hernan, you are the tallest of us. Can you see a well? Look, over there. Is that not a fountain? I am sure I see the glint of spray rising in the sun.”
As all of us stopped and craned our necks, Rachel gave a cry of excitement, let go her mule’s bridle, and darted away from us into the crowd.
“Raquel!”
“Rachel, stop!”
As I started forward to run after her, something glittered at my feet. I bent and picked it up. It was Rachel’s silver cross, its chain broken. When I looked up, she had disappeared.
Chapter Eight
Cordoba, April 26, 1493
Rachel plunged forward, forgetting everything but her thirst. A plaza this big must surely have a great stone fountain, built atop a well, from which folk could draw water at any time. She was sure that she had seen the sparkle of spray. But when she had pushed past a multitude of people, none of them inclined to give way to her, she could see nothing resembling a fountain, only a vast sea of heads bobbing like ocean waves, interspersed with the canvas awnings of market carts like sails upon the sea. She must tell the others she had been mistaken. But when she turned, ready to retrace her steps, she could see no sign of Diego, Doña Marina, or the men.
To her right, a mule brayed and another answered. But when she elbowed her way through to them, she saw that they belonged to strangers. Then the sunlight glittered on a pair of metal helmets, but her hope that their wearers would prove to be Hernan and Esteban was dashed when she got close enough to see their faces. She stood still while the crowd eddied around her, biting her lip and trying not to cry. Diego would be so angry! She would endure any scolding he might give her for the sight of his face. How would he ever find her? There must be hundreds of people in the market. She didn’t know her way around Cordoba, not even in what direction the road to Seville lay. In any case, they would surely not continue their journey without making every effort to find her. If only they had chosen an inn first! She could have found someone to tell her how to get there. But they had not.
Perhaps she would spy the hoods and tunics of the hermandad . Surely a city as big as Cordoba maintained a company of the brothers to keep order. With luck, they had a central station where anyone who had lost some person or possession might ask if whom or what they searched for had been found. Or a troop of soldiers, at least one with a respectable captain, might be kind to a Christian girl. Rachel’s hand reached up to finger the silver cross she always wore. It was gone! She had dropped it somewhere in this teeming place, and she would never find it. That meant she could not ask any soldier for assistance, as he might serve the Inquisition. With it, she appeared a Christian, not worth a second glance. Without it, her olive skin, dark hair, and long, slender nose proclaimed the Jew. To be a Jew in Spain meant death. Neither youth nor pleading would save her.
She heard
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