Sancho looked up at him and said, “Francisco, fret not. You have often dreamed of becoming a hero like the Cid: expelled from his homeland, courageous in the fight against the Saracens, governor of Valencia, and conqueror of women’s hearts.” He cleared his throat and added with barely concealed sarcasm, “And I know it is with the utmost humility that you believe it is only a matter of time before you conquer southern cities and win the heart of the most beautiful and noble of women.”
Francisco smirked. “And why are you admitting this now?”
Sancho bowed low. “I would, of course, be honored to stand at your side as your chief alguazil.”
Francisco wasn’t watching Sancho’s performance. His eyes were on the two men walking up the line, inspecting the men as they came. He caught his breath.
Sancho asked, “Are you listening to me?”
Francisco nodded in the direction of the two men. “Guess who befriended the alguazil,” he said.
Sancho looked forward. “Is that your uncle with him? It took him, what, seven months to get on the alguazil’s good side?”
Francisco stepped out of the ranks and toward his uncle.
Sancho blocked his way.
“Stand aside,” Francisco said. “I am armed and cannot die, but that man,” he pointed, “deserves to.”
“Stay your wrath, my friend. What treachery can your uncle bare against you? You have an army with you.”
The militiaman in front of them said, “I hear they’ve been looking for a sorcerer, one that uses a stone for his black arts.”
Francisco and Sancho looked at each other. Sancho said, “He’s coming this way. There’s nowhere to hide, amigo.”
“I can’t run. It would be desertion. I have to challenge him in combat.” Francisco stepped around Sancho. A shadow loomed before him. Goliath blocked his way.
“You can’t kill him,” Goliath said. “It would be murder.”
Mateo stepped up next to Goliath and crossed his arms. “And that, right before the alguazil’s eyes. Francisco, you should know better.”
Sancho looked around and said, “A better way presents itself.”
The alguazil and Bernat walked past the Master at Arms and the water carrier, who shuffled along with drooping shoulders and hooded face while he chanted, “Agua! ¿Quién quiere agua?” They stepped up to Mateo, who stood at the end of the row.
Uncle Bernat asked, “Who hails from Toledo?”
Mateo fumbled for words, and finally stammered, “This entire company does, sire.”
Goliath stepped forward even as Mateo spoke, his shadow looming over both Uncle Bernat and the alguazil. “Who’s asking?”
The alguazil drew up to Goliath, nearly toe to toe. “I am the alguazil of Toledo, and I have heard reports of witchcraft. You wouldn’t want to bring the wrath of God down on the entire army because of one man, would you?” He turned to Uncle Bernat and asked, “Is it any of these?”
Uncle Bernat walked down the row and inspected each one, looking for lying eyes. He passed Mateo, Goliath, Sancho, and he stopped before the next man, who hid his face under a hood pulled low. The man was about Francisco’s height and one sly eye peeked out from under the shadows. As quickly as a strike that he used to beat the boy, Uncle Bernat snatched the hood and pulled it back to reveal Tío the water carrier, who smiled back at him. Tío said, “Can I ‘elp you sir? You look like you need a bit of advice. If—”
“Oh, silence, you fool.”
Uncle Bernat started inspecting the next row. The alguazil, with a sigh and a shake of his head, followed him. Tío, who beamed, obviously proud to be counted among the ranks of the militia, waved at the water carrier, who had ceased his chant to watch Uncle Bernat’s inspection. It was Francisco wearing Tío’s cloak. He nodded and led Tío’s burro back to its master.
As he was exchanging cloaks with Tío, he heard it. Despite the clamor, one voice stood out. Francisco looked at Sancho, who looked at Mateo. “La Grande,” they said together.
Her voice carried from down the ranks, as she cut her way through other women clinging to husbands and sons who may never return. She led her burro laden with a large burlap sack. A way parted for her like Moses crossing the Red Sea, her girth and commanding presence giving her sway.
When at last she reached them, they could see that she put on a bold face, unaware of the soot lined tear tracks that streaked her cheeks. “Well, you won’t be leaving me without saying goodbye, now would you?” Not waiting for a reply, she opened the satchel saying, “Since the bishop won’t let me ride with you—the fool never saw a woman fight before—I cannot let my apprentices and their friends go without being better equipped than the rest of this ... this rabble.” She pointed a thick finger at the militiaman behind Goliath. “And look not at me like that, Juan, ‘cause I just ‘bout had to dress you myself.” She turned back toward her brood, and added in a hoarse whisper, “The kid would a have gone off on this crusade with naught but the shirt on his back.” She pulled a large helmet from the bag and handed it to Goliath. “This is for you, Shorty. The little cap that idiot gave you wouldn’t serve as a dog’s dish. Made this myself last night. Got extra protection for your temple regions, if you know what I mean.”
Goliath received it and smiled for the first time that morning.
“For you, Mateo, a scabbard worthy of that sword you’re always bragging ‘bout. Remember to clean and oil your blade.” Mateo turned it over slowly. It was made of finely embossed black leather with a lining of oiled fur on the inside.
“For you, Sancho, this sword. It’s not as nice as Mateo’s, but it’s better than that machete you picked up for free. Now, look at me not like that. Take it. It cost me nothing. Some fool ordered it special and never picked it up.”
“And for an apprentice who wields a hammer as poorly as he does a broom.” She plopped down in to Francisco’s opened palms, something heavy, wrapped in fine white linen. “No time to explain this one, love, but you’ll know what it is and how to use it. I think you’re crazy, but Lord bless you.”
Francisco hugged her. The others did in turn. When at last Goliath released her from his bear grip, she was in tears again and unashamed to show them. Goliath, on the other hand, hid his eyes from their view by wearing his new helmet at an awkward tilt.
Without a further word, La Grande wiped her tears, straightened her dress, and headed back down the line. Will I ever see her again? She disappeared into the crowd around a performing troubadour.
Trumpets echoed and banners dipped. Francisco’s heart raced. This is it. The armies started moving southward on the road to Cordoba, leaving Toledo behind.
Part 2
Almohad Empire
Al-Andalus
“We do not seek peace in order to be at war,
but we go to war that we may have peace.
Be peaceful, therefore, in warring,
so that you may vanquish those
whom you war against,
and bring them to
the prosperity of peace.”
~ Saint Augustine, Letter 189 (AD 418)
Chapter 19
Francisco
South of Toledo
June 22, 1212
1 Day on the March
WITH DUST-COVERED HANDS, Mateo used a short branch pulled from a juniper tree to clear rocks and debris for their bedding. He continued his tale, “’Listen, young man,’ the abbot told him, ‘you sit here among the ashes for seven days and eat nothing but barley-bread with a crow on your head, then you’ll know what it’s like to live with her.’”
Francisco and Sancho laughed.
Goliath shook his head. “I don’t get it,” he said. No one took the time to explain.
The sun set on a long day’s march. Shadows from a line of trees a thousand paces to the west stretched across the plain of green grasses turning the brown of summer. With the setting sun came the first cool breeze from the south, a refreshing welcome. Francisco’s muscles ached. His stone heale
d wounds, disease, and scourges from hell, but did nothing for tired bones. He noted Mateo favoring one foot. After he falls asleep, I’ll have to heal his blisters.
Francisco and his friends had been placed into a twelve-member squad under the lead of an old veteran named Gombal, a one-eyed man with a slight limp and more stories to tell than Mateo. Gombal’s squad was placed with seventeen others that comprised Toledo’s southwest district, to be commanded by an alcalde29 whom they hadn’t yet met. They were unloading a wagon, and Gombal had given Mateo the lighter work if he favored them with one of his tales. Francisco loved Mateo’s jests. He’d heard this one a hundred times before, but each time Mateo told it, it grew with clarity and strength like aged wine.
“And then, and then,” Mateo said with increasing enthusiasm, but when he looked up, he stopped. He dropped his branch and wiped his hands on his jerkin, all the while staring over Francisco’s shoulder.
Francisco tensed. He turned. Riding into their camp upon a horse decorated with more brilliant splendor than a princess betrothed, sat Umberto de Pena.
Francisco elbowed Sancho and asked in a whisper, “Isn’t that Umberto, the one who owns a vineyard north of Toledo?”
Sancho nodded.
“Yes,” Sancho said. “Why is he on a high horse?”
Mateo said, “The administrator appointed him as our alcalde.”
“How?” Goliath asked. “You have to have noble blood to be—”
Mateo flashed a false smile tinged with disgust. “We’re from the southwest district,” he said. “No nobleman wants us.”
With a quick wave if his hand, Francisco hushed them. “Quiet. Here he comes.”
They watched their new alcalde inspect the camp and troops, speaking in a sharp, squeaky voice as he passed them. Umberto, obviously trying to encourage his troops with moving words of wisdom, sounded instead like a burro pretending to be a well-trained warhorse. “We must give our utmost in a crusade against the Crescent,” he concluded riding up to Francisco’s squad. Umberto’s eyes briefly landed upon Francisco with such a dismissive assessment, that Francisco felt like a sickly bull calf at auction. “We all play a part in our fight against the Mohammedans, no matter how small.”
Goliath bowed and said, “If it doesn’t matter how small they are, then I want to fight the little ones.”
Francisco closed his eyes and slapped his forehead. Goliath’s timing was always a little off.
Umberto’s expression fell. No longer putting on the airs of a high nobleman, he scowled. “Do you consider your tasks beneath you?” Umberto’s eyes narrowed.
Goliath chuckled, which made a hissing noise through his missing front teeth. “Everything is beneath me.”
Francisco elbowed him, and said under his breath, “The alcalde is not jesting.”
“I know you,” Alcalde Umberto said to Goliath. “You’re one of those street thugs, a Castigo or a Matón, are you not?”
Goliath stopped chuckling. Others, perhaps curious of the commotion or eager for some entertainment, left their camp preparation duties and started to gather around the alcalde and this glib giant. Goliath stuck out his chest. “I am a soldier in King Alfonso the VIII’s army.”
“You are a stick gatherer.” Umberto smirked. He leaned over and placed his elbow on his thigh.
Goliath blinked.
“A gatherer of dead wood,” Umberto continued. “A collector of tree bones. Where, pray tell, is your wood, huh? Where is it?”
Goliath looked around for help.
Umberto sat back in his saddle, a nobleman’s mask firmly back upon his face. “You should have been collecting wood as we marched. Every soldier should.”
Francisco stepped forward and asked the alcalde, “So, why didn’t you?”
Several gasps of astonishment came from the gathering troop.
Umberto turned on Francisco, plucked a twig from his horse’s mane, and held it up gingerly, his pinky finger extended. “Oh, but I did.” His smile turned into a cackle and his cackle into a guffaw, pulsing such that he sounded like a quacking duck. He glanced around, pleased with his own humor. Only three peones laughed. His laughter died. Wiping a tear from his eye, Umberto recovered and said loudly enough to make an example of Francisco, “I’m learning you, boy. Because your tongue needs taming, you are now appointed as the wood gatherer for the next week. You shall gather enough wood for these five squads each day.”
“Five squads? How can I—”
“Unarmed.” Any trace of jesting had left Umberto’s face. His stare at Francisco was rock solid.
Francisco calculated the work, the loads required for five campfires. He glanced around at the terrain. The only trees were in the ravine a thousand paces away.
Francisco’s squad leader Gombal stepped forward, removing his helmet. “Begging your pardon, sir, but if this lad is to fetch wood in yonder grove, he should be armed. The Almohad, they’re a sly bunch, and there’s no doubt. And if he—”
Umberto regarded the man. “And you are?”
“Sergeant Gombal, hero of Alarcos, sir.” He bowed. “I’m the lad’s squad leader, and if—”
“Hero?” Umberto scoffed. “Maybe you didn’t realize, but we lost at Alarcos, lost terribly.”
Gombal’s jaw clenched ever so briefly. “True that, sir, but I’ve seen enough to know that no one should leave this company unarmed while in enemy territory, leastwise if he’s not wanting to meet his Maker any time soon.”
Alcalde Umberto nodded. “Very well.” Umberto leaned over and handed Francisco the twig he plucked from his horse’s mane. “You may take this to defend yourself. Now, afterling, get us something of value, or die trying.” Umberto de Pena nodded and rode down the path to the next campsite.
Gombal shook his head. “Power is like skill. If you have to tell people you have it, then you ain’t got it.” He patted Francisco on the shoulder. “Don’t take his words to heart, lad. He is an infant with a sword, ashamed to let anyone know he doesn’t know how to handle it and wounding those he should be helping.” He turned to a thin man with greasy black hair and wide, tired eyes. He and Gombal looked to be about the same age, maybe about thirty-five. “Greasy, fetch me my crossbow.”
The thin man nodded and sauntered over to the wagon.
Goliath placed a meaty hand on Francisco’s shoulder. “I should go with you,” he said.
“No,” Francisco said. “That would please Señor Hufty-Tufty Alcalde.”
With his one eye, Gombal inspected Francisco and asked, “You been trained with a crossbow?”
Francisco nodded, now eager to both please and to show his skill. “I showed up to all the drills. Got good marks.”
“Good. What do you do when you’re not a’soldiering?”
“I’m a swordsmith apprentice.”
“Ah yes, that’s right. A good thing to have on the march. I’ll call you Forger. Now take this burro to carry your burden and extra twine to bind it.”
Greasy returned with the crossbow and handed it to Francisco with three bolts. He was a fidgety man; he constantly licked or pursed his lips or crinkled his nose like he was about to sneeze. His eyes never rested on one thing for more than a couple of heartbeats. When his face wasn’t moving, the fidgets moved to his hands. He rubbed his thumbs with his fingers. He smiled at Francisco, showing a gap of missing teeth on his upper right side. A crooked but honest smile, filled with warmth.
Francisco asked, “Is your real name Greasy?”
“No. They call me that on account of my sly moves.” Greasy squatted down and moved is hands like water down a river. “Four times I passed through the enemy’s darts at Alarcos. A hailstorm of bolts. Not one touched me. Hundreds there were.”
Sancho stepped forward. “I’m going with him. I’m the one who got him in trouble.”
Mateo gaped. “You can’t. The alcalde only sent Francisco.”
Sancho shrugged. “He did not forbid me to go.”
“Aye,” Gombal said, “but leaving
camp without permission is forbidden.”
Sancho turned to Gombal, “Have I your permission?”
Gombal smiled. “Now you’re thinking like a veteran.”
“Sending two out to forage is daft,” Greasy said, “especially since ambushing is a favorite ploy by both sides.”
“Better than sending one out,” Gombal said and put a hand on Francisco’s and Sancho’s shoulders. “Listen. Sharp ears and sharper eyes. Keep your voices down. Chances are slim the enemy’s out there, on account of our scouts, but we’re in their territory now. Their scouts are good; some better than ours. Don’t think you’ll see them before they see you. Watch the birds. If they’re spooked, get out of sight first and then look where the birds came from. Now you better hurry. It will be dark soon.”
On the way to the ravine, they passed a campsite with fires already lit, where a troubadour dressed in black with a pointed hat performed before a raucous crowd. The scent of spiced vegetable stew gave Francisco pause. It was a good tune and the words rekindled his dream of becoming like El Cid. He started clapping with the beat just in time for the song to end.
The crowd cheered.
Sancho tugged on his sleeve. “Come on.”
Francisco held up a finger. “Let’s see what the next song is. Then we’ll go.”
The crowd’s attention turned to another performer that the troubadour introduced, a jongleur dressed in an elaborate red costume with drooping sleeves and an oversized hat with a dog’s head on top. Francisco was close enough to see a scar that ran on the left side of the jongleur’s face from his forehead to his cheek, and his left arm was held in a sling. A juggling accident?
The crowd chanted: “Dance, dance, dance.”
The red jongleur pointed to his sling and said, “Alas, I cannot perform.”
Someone in the crowd jeered. “Then what good are you?”
The Apprentice Stone (Shadows of Time Book 1) Page 14