Herredero

For how many years now had the insurmountable tenacity of the British naval forces thwarted the proud might of Spain – for time and time again had the lofty floating fortresses of the Dons succumbed in engagements with both the heretic navy of the cursed British and their damned privateers?

Then to fail in the greatest undertaking of all, with their Grand Armada ragged and torn piece by piece until it became a pitiful remnant of its initial magnificence and assembled might. Galleons sunk from the Lizard to the Orkneys, their flotsam marking a trail of destruction along the Channel and up the cold Northern Sea. The pride of Corunna gone and the gathered armies of the Duke of Parma left to wait in impotent eternity on the beaches of Dunkirk.

The papist Dons might well curse the British as heretics and pirates but the facts remained as a stark truth. They had been defeated on countless occasions by a hand-full of men and ships of that accursed nation. Overthrown and dishonoured in all quarters of the globe.

One hundred and seventy-four years now passed since the Grand Armada was defeated. Now again the proud dignity of Spain was brought to a state of pathetic obeisance. Now the heretics held the Philippines within their relentless grasp - the oriental jewel of all Spanish colonies, conquered by the British forces of the East India Company’s military supremo, Sir Robert Clive.

During the fateful years of 1756 to 1763 Spain and France, under the inept rule of the Bourbon monarchs, had seen fit to go to war against Britain - the Seven Years War. A war that saw, in 1762, Clive's forces pound the Walled City of Manila with cannon-fire until the Governor General surrendered it to the invading army.

Yet the affluent of Spanish society lived on much the same in their haciendas that spread across the green splendour of their fertile, usurped colony. For the wealthy Dons of Manila too, little changed. They still plied their merchant enterprises, albeit under the auspices of foreign eyes. Yet word was already in the air that the British would cede the Spanish colonies back to their rightful conquerors when the Treaty of Paris was ratified and signed.

The Spanish society of Manila still boomed, enjoined in the frequent banquets and balls, with the oligarchs forever plotting courses for their titled dynasties to span the coming centuries. To ever expand in wealth and affluence and defeat their fellow merchant competitors in the grand game of commerce. To have sons wedded to the daughters of Hacienderos, and daughters matched with titled and landed Dons.

Mayhap the world itself was in a state of political flux, but the pillars of Spanish colonial society, the captains of government and commerce, still had to guide the mundane helm of their families' lives through unsounded channels and into safe harbours.

"Juliana, bring me wine!" called the throaty voice of the elderly Don from the mansion's rear terrace.

In swift response, his daughter laid aside her embroidery sampler and gathered up a silver tray of decanters and glasses from the dark, polished narra sideboard. Walking briskly out onto the terrace's shaded expanse, she laid the tray upon the wrought iron table at her father's side.

"Will you take white or red, Papa?" she asked.

"The Sauterne, and a full glass too," he replied, shifting his attention from the shipping manifests he held, then removing his pince-nez, laying all beside the tray of decanters.

Juliana's ruffled white blouse and full-length black skirt accentuated the natural beauty of her maturing figure. The long raven-black hair was gathered behind her head, and arranged in a tight chignon. The silver clasps holding it dazzled brilliantly as the chance rays of the afternoon's sun dared pierce the foliage of the shading trees, and reflect upon their filigree.
She poured a liberal measure of the clear wine into a stemmed glass of cut crystal, and laid it before her father.

"Sit girl, I wish to speak with you on matters of profound importance," the Don instructed her. Brushing cheroot ash from the front of his dark brocade waistcoat he sat erect in the chair and reached for his wine. Sipping it slowly he regarded her with intent eyes.

"Upon your next birthday what age will you be girl?" he asked.

"Five and twenty years, Papa," Juliana replied.

"Ah, five and twenty years," he repeated softly, as if contemplating some unbeknown factor that this figure represented. "And of marriage, do you foresee a joining of souls before you attain six and twenty years?" he further inquired.

Juliana's pale-cream face flushed, and she cast her eyes to her lap.

"Answer girl!" her father commanded with an exasperated roar, "Don't play the shy maiden in my presence, I know you all too well," he admonished in a stern tone.

She collected herself and stared at her father, full in the eyes. "If I am to meet with a man of title, of handsome cut and wealth, then I will consider him. If he has an intelligent wit, and is of a kind disposition too, then I shall consider him most carefully. Would you have me accept a suitor of lesser qualities Papa?"

Don Iago smiled inwardly. This is how he expected his offspring to answer, and not play the timid, shy virgin.

"And you feel such a suitor might be found within the Islas Filipinas?" he furthered.

"I pray to St Winifred in hope Papa, but to this day they all lack in some intrinsic respect or other."

Don Iago's right index finger smoothed his trim, white moustache as he reflected Juliana's reply.
"This last evening gone I dined at the table of Don Juan Campos. We discussed many things during the course of the repast, and one was of your marriage to his eldest son, Alonzo," Juliana's father informed her.

"Alonzo!" she shrieked. "Why, Alonzo is much my senior! And too his face is scarred!"
"His face bears the scar of a cutlass blade," Don Iago interjected. "The mark of a fighting man, and one of intrepid daring and proven courage. Many are the pirate vessels he has fought these three years past. He will make you a suitable husband, Juliana."

"But our ages are so mismatched," Juliana parried with her father, "and too our interests in the arts. His humour is dry and cutting, none of the senoritas of Manila can bear to dance with him at the season's fetes and balls."

"His age is but thirty and two years, girl. Why, your mother and I were separated by a difference of twelve years in our ages, God rest her loving soul."

"Oh father, not Alonzo Campos," she implored. "I promise I will choose and marry before my twenty-sixth year if you will grant me respite from this . . . . . this . . . marriage de convenience."

"Each year since your twenty-first have I asked, and each year has your answer been the same. Thus I conclude you wish to treasure your virginity until spinsterhood leaves you a dried-out maid, aged beyond the fancy of any eligible bachelor.”
"At times," Don Iago continued to his mournful daughter, "I doubt my wisdom in allowing you to attend that progressive college in Madrid. It seems you returned here with radical ideas well beyond a young woman's charter." He left Juliana to contemplate his words in silence, and refilled his glass with the choice Sauterne.

Sipping the wine slowly he regarded her troubled eyes. What a pity you are an only child, my daughter – our first, and last born. What tragedy your mother died bearing you into this world. No sons to carry forward my family's name and title, he pondered to himself.

"What is your mind, Juliana?" His stern voice broke the brooding silence.

"Please allow me one more year, father. I will make a choice and marry in that time, I truly promise."

"The choice is made for you girl. You dallied too long these four years past. You left me to make a decision that should have been made by yourself. You will marry Don Alonzo Campos before the month of May is ended. Your dowry is finalised, and our choice for the ceremony is the grand cathedral of Intramuros. All Spanish society will be present to pay you their respects and wishes of bon fortune. No tears, I pray of you, Juliana. It will be a happy joining that time's passage will prove."

Don Iago's daughter dabbed her tear-streaked face with a lace kerchief, yet still sobbed bitterly. Her father's stern tone softened a fraction as he spoke.
"Juliana, you are my only child, and I grow old beyond my years. Do you not think I would wish to see my grand-children born from you before mortality places me at Heaven's gate? Accept what is meant to be: that which Don Juan Campos and I have designed for yourself and Alonzo. He will make you a husband to be proud of, and cherish you as his wife."

Her sobbing subsided and she returned to a state of gathered composure, as befitted her breeding - as though resigned to her father's wishes.

"Tomorrow you will summon the seamstress and plan the design of your wedding gown," Don Iago instructed her. She nodded her assent, and tried to bear a feeble smile upon her fullest pink lips.

"Think gently of me, girl," Don Iago spoke softly, taking hold of his daughter's hands within his own. "You shall come to realise my decision for your marriage is for the best, and grow to love Alonzo deeply, of that I am certain."

He sipped the wine glass dry, and rose stiffly from the cushions padding the terrace chair.
"I must go away now to the harbour until the evening, Juliana. Think deeply upon all that I have told you, and adjust your heart and mind to come to comfortable terms with your situation.”
“This Saturday hence Don Alonzo will call, at the onset of evening, and escort you to the Inglese governor's ball at the Intramuros residence. Choose your finest gown and jewellery’s for the occasion, for Don Juan Campos and I plan to announce your engagement there."

He walked lamely across the terrace's shaded expanse, calling for his major-domo to have the carriage made ready for the short journey to the harbour.

Juliana sat and stared at the beautiful tropical flora that grew throughout the gardens of their residence: all manicured so neatly and filling the late afternoon's air with a heavy, exotic aroma from their perfumed blooms.

Her mind was a confusion of wild thoughts. She held no desire to see herself wedded to Alonzo Campos - to any man, for that matter. Nor did she desire a man's member thrust into her belly whenever the night's mood took his fancy - to become impregnated by their filthy sperm, and grow bloated and fat. To howl and scream in convulsive agonies as the ripe foetus dilated her pelvic structure, squirming its way out of her insides. Clamouring for life, regardless of the damage it caused her body while doing so.

To scream, scream and scream until the child was born, and her heart failed, and she died. As had happened to her own mother, a mother she had never known, aside from the anonymous portrait that hung in her father's study.

Juliana was by no means possessed of a frigid nature. She was a full-bodied woman, of maturing tastes and subtle passions. Oh yes, the most subtle passions, and secret pleasures - pleasures that were the confidence of her maid alone – the beautiful Rosa. Her lithe, brown body had taught Juliana of pleasures that no fumbling man could ever match. There was no threat of pregnancy underlying Rosa's sensual lips and teasing tongue. No sperm ejaculated from her deft, slim fingers as she parted the most pink lips twix her Mistress’s legs, and stimulated her inner core.

Yes, only mutual pleasures derived from their nightly encounters, when passion filled Juliana's bedroom. While the mansion was silent and dark, and all of its other occupants lost in the dream world of sleep. When Rosa's patient lips sought the labial petals of Juliana's jade gate and her flicking tongue coaxed the sensitive pink pearl from its hooded confines, and her undulating hips once more relaxed in sated repose.

What man could match such ardour and gentle passion? She would be chattel to no salacious, pompous don - bearing their progeny until she died in childbirth, or reached the secure haven of menopause: a desiccated hag.

Her father grew senile before his time with the tropical climes and recurrent attacks of malaria, but she was prepared to grasp the helm of his merchant enterprises, and steer them on a continued profitable course should Don Iago become infirm or succumb to an early grave.

Oh yes, the college she had attended in Madrid during her teenage years might have been thought progressive by the friars and the austere nuns, and her father too. But is has taught her of accounting and commerce, or the importance of shipping routes and the development of fresh venues of trade. Juliana had been an avid pupil then, and still she maintained a scrupulous interest in her father's business dealings - the who, the why, and the wherefore of Spanish commerce throughout their colonies around the globe.

She could match the mind of any man regarding the mercantile trade, and would do so once the opportunity was hers to grasp. But what of now, she mused? In less than two months I am to be wedded to that scar-faced Alonzo. What ploy can I affect that will thwart my father's planned decision? She sat and reflected on the matter deeply, pouring herself a generous measure of fine French claret from the tray's bounty.

By the hour the sun had turned to a deep, fiery red glow and sink below the western horizon of Manila Bay, Juliana had formulated three courses of possible action to avoid a marriage to Alonzo: to any man at all. One of which would be implemented when the imminent occasion arose.

………………………..

Juliana swept down the broad staircase and proffered her hand to Alonzo, who awaited in the acacia-panelled hall. His lips brushed the soft flesh, and he greeted her.
"Juliana, how splendid you look, does she not, Don Iago?" he asked of her father, who stood proudly by his side.

"Juliana is beautiful whatever garb she chooses to wear," Don Iago replied.
The object of their compliments curtsied playfully in reply to their flattery, and asked "Don Alonzo, are we to venture to Intramuros and the Inglese governor's ball, without the formality of a chaperone?"

"Indeed not, Juliana," he replied earnestly, unaware of his intended's subtle sarcasm, "my sister Purita awaits us in my carriage outside."

"Come along Juliana," her father chided gently, "you are expected at the governor's mansion by the seventh hour."

A Filipina maid descended the stairs, carrying her mistresse’s white crochet shawl. She placed it around Juliana's shoulders, adjusting its warming texture to cover the bared flesh before dismissing herself to the rear confines of the mansion. Don Alonzo took Juliana's hand, and they walked to his coach at the mansion's forecourt.

"I will follow in a short while," Don Iago called, "I mean to attend in my own carriage and show these British usurpers that we still have our pomp and circumstance regardless of their imposed presence and tariff laws."

Don Alonzo inclined his head in a gesture of acknowledgment, and Juliana waved a brief goodbye. Alonzo's sister greeted her coolly, to which Juliana responded in like form.
The carriage was silent during its fifteen minute journey from the elite residential quarter of Malate to the inner walled city of Intramuros.

Alonzo's attentions were directed on the view outside the carriage's confines, his cold, grey eyes studying the ships that were anchored out in the darkened bay, their white sails furled along the high mast spars in readiness for their next voyage. The sails of British galleons – the galleons of the accursed heretic Inglese - the galleons of trade and of war.
One day, Alonzo mused, one day soon, we shall see them all sunk before the might of Spain.

Liveried footmen opened the carriage's doors, and Don Alonzo alighted. Offering his hand, he assisted Juliana as she stepped out of the carriage, and then performed the same duty of polite society for his sallow-humoured sister, Purita.

As they entered the mansion's main reception hall the orchestra's strings played a lively rhythm, and the pairs formed together to dance a pavana. Don Alonzo's footman took charge of his master's cloak and the two ladies' shawls. Though it was a humid and warm March evening, such garb was still deemed necessary due the etiquette of formal dress.

Alonzo led Juliana into the main hall's broad expanse, and white stucco walls reflected the blaze of light given off by the magnificent candle-lit crystal chandeliers. As was the English habit at such functions, there was a cold buffet laid at the far end of the ballroom, and from there were drinks dispensed to a regiment of liveried footmen who hastily procured the guest's preference of tipple.

Alonzo summoned one of the footmen and arrogantly ordered glasses of Spanish white wine for himself and his female companions. The lack of simple courtesy on his part in not inquiring their preference first caught Juliana's quick mind instantly. When their wine arrived she declined her offered glass, informing Alonzo that white wine played havoc with her digestion, and could she perhaps have a glass of rose?

Alonzo gave a pompous grunt, and instructed the servile footman of Juliana's request. The liveried servant bowed, and returned to the buffet's bar.

'I must remember to stock our cellar with an adequate supply of Spanish rose for you,' Alonzo spoke quietly, his eyes intent on the couples dancing.

Juliana did not bother to respond, but smiled inwardly, knowing her intended had been wounded in their first brief skirmish of what she hoped would prove a short and decisive war: won in her favour.

The first hour of the evening passed by, and Juliana graciously accepted Alonzo's hand upon the ballroom floor twice. Both times she had been sure to allow her practiced feet to catch his, and undermine his arrogant and dominant self-confidence towards her. Though he uttered no chide nor words of reproach concerning her clumsiness during the dancing she nevertheless sensed intuitively that his ire was rising.

The ballroom was by now a most lively affair. Servants passed to and from through the throngs of guests, replenishing the contents of proffered glasses of their social betters. The centre of the ballroom was a swirl of brightly costumed and uniformed bodies, dancing gaily to whatever the orchestra played. The English naval and military officers were immaculate in their uniforms of red and blue and white: all trimmed with gold braids.

Juliana's sharp opalesque green eyes caught sight of an officer of Marines. By God, she thought, he is a magnificent specimen of handsome manhood, even for a heretic Inglese. As the officer turned and looked about him, their eyes met and locked.
Juliana smiled widely, and her eyes closed so briefly, as to acknowledge his interest. He returned her smile and strode boldly across the ballroom to where she stood with Dona Purita guarding her right flank in solemn silence. Alonzo, by this time, had grown tired of his imminent fiancée’s reluctance to make small talk, and had engaged himself in a conversation with his fellow dons some meters away.

'Ma'am,' the officer of Marines began, 'would you allow me the pleasure of this next dance?' He bowed his head and shoulders in deference to her obvious social rank.

'Thank you, Captain,' she replied in faultless yet accented English, noting the studs of rank upon his uniform, 'I would be honoured to accept.'

He took her hand and led her onto the main floor, and as they merged together, so became a part of the steady flow already engaged in the brisk waltz.

Dona Purita was aghast, and beckoned to her brother with both eyes and gesticulating fingers before she finally caught his attentions and he rejoined her side.

“Juliana has accepted that Inglese officer's invitation to waltz”, she dutifully informed her brother. Alonzo looked into the throng until his eyes located Juliana and the officer of Marines, and locked on to her cavorting with an enemy of Spain. The waltz ended, and the orchestra played on into their next piece, and the English officer of Marines and Juliana danced on.

Alonzo's blood began to boil. He snapped at a passing footman to bring him wine - and quickly. Dona Purita's eyes stared at Juliana upon the ballroom floor too - eyes of reproach, admonishing eyes. Perhaps jealous eyes too. Who could know Purita's mind: a mind adversely affected years past by the protracted time she spent in the convent schools of Barcelona and Manila, under the austere auspices of the sisters of celibacy.

'You dance exquisitely, Senhorita,' Captain Burton complemented his companion, in a rich, deep baritone Home Counties accent.

'I thank you sir. You also have a nimble foot,' Juliana replied as her peripheral vision caught the irate stares of Alonzo and his reptile-faced sister. This end was tonic enough to add fresh vigour and enjoyment to her dance.

'Your English is correct and well-spoken, Senorita,' the Captain commented. 'May I apologise for my Castilian, it consists of but a few words only. Where did you acquire a mastery of our language, might I ask?'

'My lecturer in Madrid was an Englishman. He was of a devout Catholic family that fled your country to avoid religious persecution, and found safe haven in Catholic Spain.'

'And he taught English in a Spanish institution of learning?' the Captain queried.

'He was a progressive thinker, and believed that one day English will become an international language of commerce. He taught Latin and Greek too,' Juliana teased.

'The priesthood allowed him this licence?' Captain Burton pursued with his sceptical enquiry as they swirled around the ballroom's marble-floored expanse.

'The priests of our faith only thirst for heretic English blood, not the language of your tongues,' Juliana informed him with a curt smile.

On and on the orchestra played, and on and on Captain Burton and Juliana danced. Eventually they got tired, and he led her back to the company of a venomous Purita and a scowling Alonzo.

'May I introduce Captain Burton, of the East Indian Company’s Marines?' Juliana informed her two escorts in their native Castilian. Both nodded curtly, and offered nothing more. Burton responded in like fashion, and excused himself from their company.

'Juliana,' Alonzo began, 'I forbid you to dance with the Inglese again. They are our sworn enemies. You shame not only yourself but also your father and my own self with your inane cavorting.'

'I shame none, and shall dance with whom I choose if you desert my company and leave me without escort, and go off quaffing wine and gabbling with your friends,' Juliana countered with articulate mastery.

Purita stood with her mouth agape at the fact a woman, and an unwedded woman too, of their society dared answer a don with such vehemence in her voice. The effect of her reply was not lost on the face of Alonzo too.

'God steal your breath, you impudent bitch,' he uttered as his voice began to rise in creeping octaves, 'I will tame your tongue once we are wed, that is a certain fact. You dance amorously with the enemies of Spain, and consider it of small consequence?'

'I thought them the conquerors of Spain, thus their enforced presence here in our city,' Juliana countered.

Alonzo grasped her left fore arm roughly, and turned her to face him.

'You are my betrothed, and will do as I command. Now, your quick apology on this matter before I lose control of my temper and discipline you here,' Alonzo warned her.

“Betrothed by whose volition?” Juliana exclaimed with a questioning incredulousness, her voice rising to catch the ears of nearby guests. 'I am betrothed to no man of my own free will. Our fathers might have agreed upon such a state of affairs, but not I. Not willingly.”

Alonzo's grip tightened on her arm, his face now one possessed by the deep red of rage. Juliana cried out as his fingers dug into her flesh, and she swung her right hand with all her might, connecting with the side of Alonzo's face. Heads turned throughout the ballroom toward their direction, and all conversation ceased. Only the orchestra played on as if indifferent to the guest's personal fetishes of entertainment.

As Juliana's blow struck Alonzo, he relinquished his grip on her arm and stood back in utter astonishment. Then he reacted with the fired passion of all arrogant and brutal stallions, and struck her squarely across the cheek.
Juliana screamed as his blow connected, and fell to the floor purposely, biting her lower lip as she did so to produce the maximum effects from her escort's savage behaviour.

Now all talk and music came to an abrupt halt, and silence permeated the ballroom for long seconds as dancers faltered in their step and grouped guests alike turned to discover the source of this disturbance to their frivolities and pleasures.

Two sets of caring eyes settled on Juliana's prostrate form lying on the cold marble floor, and both parties acted immediately. Don Iago limped quickly across a quarter of the ballroom's length and knelt beside his daughter. John Burton, Captain of Marines, covered half of the floor's length in the same period of time and grasped Juliana beneath the arms, helping her to stand.
Blood ran in rivulets down her chin, staining the white of her evening gown scarlet. A darkening bruise puffed out on the left side of her beautiful face. The ladies of the ball responded swiftly too, and took charge of Juliana, leading her away to their private parlour.

Don Iago turned on Alonzo in rage. 'Curse your eyes, Campos! That you would dare strike a daughter of my blood! If I were still possessed of my youth I would pummel you to a gory pulp! What manner of dog strikes a woman so?'

Alonzo Campo’s half-inebriated mind was a confused mess. His temper had been stretched beyond the reins of control. How the bitch had manipulated him to this end, his mind could not fathom.

'Please, Don Iago, allow me to explain. Your daughter provoked me to this action by dancing with the Inglese,' Alonzo muddled out, pointing to Captain Burton.

'Provoked you!' Don Iago shouted. 'How are you provoked by Juliana dancing with an Englishman? I observed them dance while you quaffed wine with your fellows. There was nothing untoward in their conduct. How does that provoke you to strike my daughter?'

'He is provoked by the fact that she danced with an Englishman at all, any Englishman,' Captain Burton stated, placing himself at Don Iago's shoulder.
Alonzo and Don Iago stared at Burton, unable to comprehend the words he had spoken in the English tongue.
Don Gabriel stepped forward to translate and informed Burton of Alonzo Campos' words, and now acted as a neutral interpreter between them and converted Burton's statement to Castilian.

Alonzo's rage resumed, and his face was fired a deep red once more. 'Damn you, Inglese! You shall feel the blade of my epee tear your heretic gut for such gall. I will rid our colony of one usurper at least.'

Don Gabriel shook his head, though translated the high-born Castilian into the English of Captain Burton's homeland.

Burton stared Alonzo full in the face as he listened to Don Gabriel, then spoke again.
'I know of Don Alonzo Campos, and the barbaric tortures he has inflicted on the prisoners of captured galleons: English and any other nationality he has encountered on the high seas. I know him for a rogue, and now for a coward that would strike a woman. So, if Campos wishes to invite me to the duelling ground, then bedamned and let him prove his manhood there.'

No sooner had Don Gabriel finished interpreting Burton's words, Alonzo drew his gloves from a tuck in his midriff belt, and cracked them across Burton's waiting face. The Captain of Marines responded accordingly, and with a swift stride forward struck Campos full across the face: a blow that sent him reeling to the floor.

'I trust he has a second?' Burton inquired of Don Gabriel. 'As I am the challenged, I choose pistols for our encounter tomorrow at dawn. Lieutenant Prescott, you will stand as second for myself?'

The tall fellow officer of Marines replied, 'Sir, it would be an honour.'

'Then seek out Campos' second and arrange the place of our encounter,' Burton instructed his subordinate. 'Don Gabriel, might I call upon your services to act as our interpreter and neutral referee in this matter?'

'Captain', Don Gabriel began, 'It is not a duty that I wish to undertake, but one which I shall if Don Alonzo is willing to accept my adjudication.”

Alonzo was helped to his feet by his fellow dons, and held a proffered handkerchief to his nose in effort to stem the copious flow of blood from his nostrils.

'I have no objections to Don Gabriel acting as the referee in this matter,' he stated hoarsely. 'Don Isidro will act as my second.'

Captain Burton turned on his heel and walked briskly across to where the contingent of British officers gathered.

'Bring a tray of ale, and wish for my good aim upon tomorrow's dawn,' Burton called with easy voice.

Trays of frothing tankards were brought, and his fellow officers toasted him accordingly. 'Long live John Burton, and God bless his aim,' they sounded unanimously.
Burton's eyes caught sight of Juliana as she and her attending senoritas exited their parlour and re-entered the ballroom. Her left cheek was puffed and purple, her lower lip swollen, but she affected an air of composure as Don Iago joined her. He observed the don take his daughter's arm and walk slowly through the main reception hall, and to their carriage. Following them, Burton waited on the mansion's lower steps as Don Iago helped Juliana into the carriage.

Approaching the carriage's door the Captain of Marines spoke, 'Senorita, I pray that your injury will soon heal, and not cause you undue discomfort.'

'Sir, I fear I am the cause of your involvement in this matter. I am told you meet with Alonzo Campos at to-morrow's daybreak to duel for my honour,' Juliana replied in a soft voice.

'My lady, for your honour, yes - but truly for a reckoning of the foul behaviour toward yourself, and for his earned dishonour,' Burton replied.

Don Iago conversed rapidly with his daughter in their native Castilian and she translated his words for the Captain.

'My father, Don Iago Zobel, thanks you for your concern, and for your action toward Alonzo Campos. He wishes you well for the morning, and will be present at the duelling ground.'

………………………….

The Luneta fields were damp with dew as the first rays of orange light broke through the steely-gray sky over the eastern horizon of the city. To the west lay Manila' Bay, its dark expanse providing a safe haven for the multitude of sailing vessels lying at anchor.

The carriage of Don Gabriel stood to the north side of the Luneta, close to the walls of the fortress of Intramuros. Captain Burton and his second, Lieutenant Prescott, approached the carriage and bade the don the morning's greetings. Some minutes passed by in silence, then the carriage of Don Alonzo Campos entered the Luneta and drew to a halt behind Don Gabriel's.

As Alonzo and his second alighted from the carriage, John Burton took note of the dark bruising that covered the entire right side of the don's face. His nose too was a swollen mass of yellow and purple, and the right eye's white sclera stained red with the blood of ruptured capillaries.

As the adversaries faced each other, Don Gabriel called orders to his coachmen, and they erected a folding table on the damp grass.

'Your pistols, please gentlemen,' Don Gabriel requested: first in Castilian, then English. Both seconds placed the pistol cases upon the table's green felt surface, and then laid them open. Don Gabriel examined both pistols in turn then informed the seconds they may load the prime. He looked on as they did so. Both pieces were loaded with one third ounce lead balls and primed accordingly.

Don Gabriel placed two glasses on the table and filled each with a choice French brandy. He handed one to Captain Burton, the other to Don Alonzo Campos.

'Drink now, and take the morning's cold from your bones,' he spoke solemnly to both men. They did as he requested, and drained their respective glasses in a single swallow.

'Take up your weapons,' the don instructed to the Spaniard first, then the Englishman. Each man took hold of his pistol and followed their referee to the open expanse of the Luneta.

'You will fire one shot apiece. If no ball finds its mark, you may choose mutually to reload and fire again, or consider honour satisfied,' he informed both men in turn.
'Upon my count you shall walk ten paces, halt, then turn and fire. As Captain Burton is the challenged party I shall call each pace in the English. Don Alonzo, do you agree to this decision?'

'It is of no consequence to me. I shall count my paces by each of your calls,' Alonzo replied coldly.

The adversaries stood back to back, their pistols' raised, as Don Gabriel trod to a safe distance and called 'One!'

Don Alonzo trod a pace to the west, Captain Burton a pace to the east.
'Two!'

The sun's early rays were still in combat with the final vestiges of the night's shadows as the call of 'Three!' rang out.

Both men trod evenly.

'Four!'

With the dew of the unkempt grass wetting their boots, both men paced on.

'Five!'

And on.

'Six!'

And on

'Seven!'

Both seconds stood ready to rush to their principal's side if the need arose.

'Eight!'

Don Gabriel's eyes alternated between the duellists as each pace was called: checking their strides were even.

'Nine!'

A light drizzle began to fall as the last pace was called.

'Ten!'

Don Alonzo and Captain Burton took their final pace then turned swiftly to face each other. Their detonations were simultaneous, more one single explosion than two separate ones. Burton cried out and staggered back, dropping his pistol and clenching his left upper arm with his right hand. A copious flow of blood ran through his fingers and soaked the sleeve of his loose white cotton shirt. Lieutenant Prescott ran quickly to his aid.

Don Gabriel's eyes turned to the west, and stared long at the prostrated body of Alonzo Campos. He strode across to the body of the fallen don, accompanied by Alonzo's second, Don Isidro. Blood frothed from the stricken don's mouth. The Inglese's ball had taken Alonzo in the sternum, rupturing his lungs, and death had followed in seconds.

Don Gabriel walked to where John Burton and his second stood, the latter applying a dressing to the Captain's wound to stem the blood's flow.

'Don Alonzo Campos is dead. Your ball struck him in the chest,' Don Gabriel pronounced.

Burton nodded, and both marine officers walked slowly to their referee's carriage. To the north perimeter of the Luneta Burton noticed Don Iago stood alone, his carriage drawn to a halt nearby. Don Gabriel too caught sight of the solitary figure and went to speak with him.
But none of the participants in that morning's events observed the cloaked figure that sat astride a bay mare at the Luneta's southern perimeter. Nor did anyone notice as the slim form gave the mare a spurred dig, and the spirited mount galloped away across the field towards the bay, and southward to Malate.

.......................

Juliana paced her bedroom again then returned to the balcony overlooking the courtyard. The sun had now established itself as the master of the day, and its warming yellow rays exhumed a steamy vapour from the rain-slicked stones of the courtyard. The recent drizzle had been a feeble attempt by the night's clouds to mar the glory of the morning's sun, and had dissipated quickly.

She strode impatiently back into the voluminous bedroom and examined the bruise on her face in the dressing mirror. Her cheek was still tender but of little consequence. Naught that would not heal and disappear within the space of short days. Her lower lip was swollen to a lesser degree, a lip bitten purposely by her own even, white teeth. The blood that had stained her hands and gown had served to remarkable effect.

The sound of galloping hooves upon the granite sets caught her ear, and she ran quickly to the balcony's edge. A groom took hold of the lathered bay's bridle as it came to a drawn halt. A cloaked figure slid easily from the saddle and ran swiftly up the mansion's front steps.

Juliana turned and walked back into her bedroom. Within moments a knock fell on the panelled hardwood door.

'Come!' Juliana called, and the cloaked figure entered the room. Throwing back the cloak's cowl and unfastening its throat clasp, Rosa shook her head and her lustrous black hair cascaded in tresses over her shoulders. She came to her mistress breathlessly.

'Well? What of the outcome?' Juliana beseeched her impatiently. “Quickly girl, am I now free, or to wed the repugnant Alonzo?”

Rosa caught her breath, inhaling deeply then spoke. 'The Captain of Marines, he was wounded in the arm . . . . here,' and indicated Burton's pistol shot injury on her own upper arm. “The Don Alonzo Campos lies dead on the Luneta. The Don Gabriel Alacorte and the Don Isidro Vasquez look to his body then they walk away. The Capitan of Inglese Marines is cared for by his compadre. Your Papa watch from the side of Intramuros and no person sees me, Mistress, as you instruct.'

Juliana's arms encircled her maid's shoulders, and their lips met in a deep embrace. As they parted, Juliana took Rosa's face in her hands and stared lovingly into the dark pools of her almond eyes. She smiled, and then spoke with quiet deliberation.
'You serve me well, Rosa, my beauty. Tomorrow we must have you measured for new dresses. I think this matter of my marriage might perhaps now be finally settled for good.'