But he had misgauged the Catalan, he now realized. Seeing the same woman wearing garments that, though they could not hide the female form did nothing to display it either, had laid bare the truth.
All his life—and Bedmar had known him since he was a young man—Ruy Sanchez had never been able to resist a challenge. In that, he was much akin to the hero of the Cervantes story that he so adored. The flesh was not the challenge, of course. For a man like Sanchez, flesh was no longer a challenge at all. The challenge came from meeting the first woman in the Catalan’s life who intimidated him.
And how delightful a thought that was! Ruy Sanchez, abashed.
A woman so young, yet who moved like a queen, serenely and calmly—even more so in the garments she wore today than she had in the costumes she favored for the levees and operas—and could slice a man open while she described the deed itself. Calmly, serenely; not a tremor in her voice.
It was all the cardinal could do not to laugh aloud. Don Quixote, indeed, facing the largest windmill he had ever seen. No wonder Ruy had seemed so perplexed; yet, at the same time, so exultant. To such a windmill, such a man would devote the rest of his life. If he could only figure out what sort of lance would do the trick. The one between his legs that had served him so well in the past was hardly up to this exploit. Not on its own, certainly.
Bedmar’s eyes drifted to the windows. The light was blinding for a moment, as if the rising sun were challenging the cardinal.
Which, indeed, it was. Bedmar sighed softly, all thought of laughter gone. The sun was made by God, as He had made all things. And now, after a long lifetime devoted to matters of the flesh—politics and intrigue, if not the cruder forms—He who had created Alphonso de la Cueva, marquis de Bedmar, was reminding him none too gently that He could and did make much greater things than a marquis and a cardinal.
The sound of many gags being suppressed simultaneously drew Bedmar’s attention back to the center of the room.
One of those things was the man lying on the table. Not for many years now had Bedmar fooled himself which was the greater, the master or the servant. Did the rest of mankind fulfill their appointed roles on Earth with as much unflinching courage, honor and loyalty as that Catalan once-peasant, Satan’s domains would be far more sparsely populated.
Granted, Purgatory would be full.
Another—and Bedmar suspected a greater still—
There came another and louder simultaneous gag; in two cases, not suppressed. Idly, Bedmar wondered which of these disturbingly efficient Americans had thought to provide those useful sacks he had wondered about, positioned conveniently here and there.
His own stomach, however, had never been given to queasiness. He leaned forward, to see what was happening better.
Yes. As he’d thought. The woman was handing the intestines to her assistant. As much of them, at least, as she could pry out of the body. Bedmar wondered, for a moment, if he might someday be able to prevail upon her to allow one of those magnificent Flemish painters—he was partial to Van Dyck himself—to do a portrait of her in the act.
Probably not. There would also be the problem of keeping the painter to the work, of course. Some of them were delicate fellows.
A pity, really. It would make such a splendid allegory. The world had many queens—and far more kings—who could disembowel men at a distance using the instrument of their armies. How many did it have who could disembowel a man with her own hands in order to save his life?
The sun shone in the cardinal’s eyes, asking him God’s question. Bedmar, no fool, did not fail to note that it was a rising sun.
* * *
“—can see only one nick on the intestines themselves. I’ll sew that up later. That’s worrisome, because any cut in the intestinal tract is almost sure to result in peritonitis. But I was a lot more worried that I’d find one of the loops completely severed. That would have been a real nightmare, given what we’ve got available. This cut is small enough that I’m pretty sure we can contain the infection with the sulfa powder I’ll be using as well as the chloramphenicol we gave the patient a few hours ago.”