“Is that enough?”
He was silent.
“What goes wrong if it isn’t?” She stroked his cheek and slid her hand into his hair—his almost entirely gray hair. “Mon amour,” she whispered, “you look twenty years older than when we met last. I thought compañeros never aged.”
“I have lived for more than a century as a compañero, Hélène. Death is approaching quickly.”
Death? To keep him alive, she’d shove him into Mademoiselle Perez’s bed every night. She would not lose him now. “They shouldn’t have left you behind!”
“I couldn’t let them risk their lives when mine is already forfeit, Hélène.” His expression and voice were implacable.
“I can’t lose you now, not when I’ve just found you. I’ve had years full of imaginary conversations with you—exclaiming over new sights, mulling over acquaintances, sharing good books, just as we did in Paris. How can I lose the comfort of your presence and the joy of your mind?”
His eyes offered her no hope.
She buried her face against him with an inarticulate sob, and he hugged her close.
“I don’t know how soon it will happen, chérie. But we can spend all our time together, oui? Frequently making love and sharing our blood?”
Her arms tightened around his neck, and she wiggled closer. He wasn’t looking at her while he spoke, and she didn’t want to see how much truth he was telling, even in that seductive tone.
“I will accompany you on your mission, Hélène.” His voice strengthened to a warrior’s note. “I am as strong and fast as most cachorros, the newborn vampiros, and my senses are as good. Together we can do much.”
She sniffled. His voice was so husky, painfully unlike his usual smoothness.
“Plus, a compañero, who is well-provided with prosaico food, can easily take care of a vampira. I swear, you will not lack.”
“But will you, mon amour?” She braced herself to kneel over him. “If accompanying me risked your life in any way, brought you closer to dying by taking you farther from the blood that will keep you alive…”
His gaze softened, and he possessively rubbed her shoulders and back.
“I adore you, Hélène. I would far rather spend what time I have with you, fighting Bonaparte’s tyranny, than doing anything else in the world.” The words rang through the quiet like a vow.
“Then we shall go to war together, my love.” A brave smile quavered on her lips.
They met halfway, sealing their love with a kiss both sweet and fiery hot.
SAN LEANDRO, GALICIA, THE NEXT DAY
Rodrigo exited San Rafael Arcángel and set his hat on his head, preparing for yet another snowstorm. He automatically considered the peasants around him as they too departed morning mass. He personally hadn’t taken communion, of course, simply attended the service—his second visit to a church in the past five centuries.
There were far too many men here, reflecting the migrant laborers’ return from other parts of the Iberian Peninsula. Yet on the whole, San Leandro was a peaceful, prosperous town with men and women receiving the priests’ blessing before bustling off to the day’s chores. Many of them were tall and blond, clearly descended from the Celts and Visigoths who’d originally conquered these mountains. Their clothing was stark black, enhancing the warmth of the sunshine and the smiles when they greeted the priests. Here, unlike so many other places in Europe, the clergy were obviously deeply trusted.
The younger priest, one of the very strict Capuchin Franciscan, was a stout fellow deeply involved with their lives. Every woman and most of the men paused to talk with him, not just receive a quick blessing. Some obviously promised to return later, while the nuns clearly enjoyed his company. He was apparently the senior priest, given the congregants’ fondness for him and that he’d been the one to celebrate mass.
The older priest was taller, thinner, and quieter—except when small children scampered past. Also a Capuchin Franciscan, he had a knack for dropping to one knee and speaking to them in a way which brought chortles and rapt attention. Mothers and grandmothers chuckled and lingered, letting their priest practice his halting Gallego on their offspring for a few minutes.
The people were well fed, thanks to the rich green pastures of the Costa Verde and these natural mountain fortresses high above it. Here they had plenty of beef, pork, and chicken, as well as wheat—so long as no grasping landlord or provincial government stole it. They’d been hit hard by those scourges but not destroyed, probably thanks to their isolation—especially the sheer difficulty of reaching San Leandro over the famous bridge.
Centuries ago, Rodrigo’s father and grandfather had drilled him and his brothers in how to protect their people, how to husband the land and enrich it, how to build for the ages. As a knight, he’d sworn to protect his people and his lands—but his captivity had torn him completely away from those obligations. He couldn’t have walked in daylight to see what needed to be done, and he’d closed his mind to the responsibilities—and the joys—he’d been denied.
He could live with how he’d kept his personal duties as a Christian alive—of prayer and confession. But how much he’d failed others? Those were the worst nightmares, the sins that locked him in the church’s outermost reaches.
They’d also kept him from visiting his wife’s tomb within San Rafael Arcángel.
But now with war approaching…Now he found himself wondering if those three men sitting under the oak tree would make a good work party to repair the section of road in front of the baker’s. Part of the wall holding back the hillside near the bridge needed some work, too. But it would be better done by more men. He could also ask the women to make more cheese and sausage for food. Of course, if he hired some of the boys to bring water, it would spread money to more households…
Two little boys raced past him to join their mothers, their scarlet caps blazing against the stone walls.
“Ah, God bless them,” the older priest commented from behind him in English. “Surely children are the grace that keeps us all alive.”
Rodrigo whipped around, startled he hadn’t heard the man approach.
“Father Michael.” He bowed as was proper—before realizing that he’d answered in the same language, the first time he’d used it publicly in San Leandro.
The priest made a graceful sign of the cross over him in response, the first he’d received in so very long. Light brushed his cheek but faded under the dark scudding clouds.
“Welcome to San Leandro, my son.” Surprisingly bright blue eyes in a seamed brown face saw far too much without probing. He watched the children and the parishioners disappear around a corner, leaving them alone. Even the other priest and the nuns had departed.
“Thank you, Father. Your voice has the soft cadence of Ireland.” He cautiously opened a conversation, offering his knowledge of the other’s accent.
“I was born and raised in County Wicklow, within a few miles of Dublin, but I spent many years in the west near Galway.” His face lit up with joy at finding someone to share memories with.
“One of my dearest friends is an O’Malley.”
“Famed for their fighting men—and their pirate queen.”
Rodrigo laughed. “He made very sure I could pronounce her name properly. Graw-nya O’Malley.”
“Or Grace, as the English translate it.”
“What brings you here to Spain?” Rodrigo asked casually, ready to withdraw the question at the slightest hint of constraint.
“Galicia is at the other end of the great smuggling route to Ireland.” Father Michael’s eyebrows went up. “Traveling here is very easy.”
Rodrigo blinked, having considered those sailing routes very little while he was growing up.
“This land is as green but far more mountainous than Ireland,” he said neutrally.
“Here the children play amid gardens of stone, while we are certain that the French will come.” The priest’s voice turned as leaden as the skies, his dark brown habit w
hipping against his legs. “Eleven years ago, the French didn’t come to Ireland where the children hid and the men stood tall among fields of green.”
“The ’97 Rising!”
“Aye. I’d been a hedge priest, serving my God and my countrymen by hiding in thickets to bring Holy Communion and teach Catechism in open fields to the music of birdsong—because the Protestant English forbade all other celebration. When my people chose to fight—believing the French would help—I went with them.”
“As a priest.”
“I didn’t expect my principal duties to consist of giving the Last Rites—and running for my own life, lest my presence destroy others.” Agony scored his face, an expression Rodrigo knew far too well. He pressed his hands together in an attitude of prayer and closed his eyes, breathing hard.
Rodrigo started to edge away, so the old priest could grieve in private.
“Forgive me if I have disturbed you.” The Franciscan glanced at the other man from under his level silver brows. “It is still painful to remember. Having someone to speak to in English seems to have opened deeper floodgates than I expected.”
“I, too, have bitter memories, Father, which I hope to heal.” Rodrigo shrugged a disclaimer, denying any awkwardness.
“That’s what the vicar-general said when he sent me here. He hoped San Rafael Arcángel would heal me, the traveler.”
They smiled wryly at each other in perfect accord.
Wind ruffled their hair, raw-edged with the threat of snow and touched with wood smoke’s warmth.
Both men immediately, instinctively measured the distance to their lodgings. But Rodrigo hesitated, caught on the verge of saying a polite and very secular farewell. Would the Lord think he deserved even this much of a favor?
“Father—will you bless me before I go?”
“Of course, my son.” Father Michael’s face softened and became almost transfigured.
Rodrigo knelt on the cold, wet stones, removed his hat, and bowed his head.
Father Michael lifted his hand.
“The blessing of Mary and the blessing of God,
The blessing of the sun and the moon on their road,
Of the man in the east and the man in the west,
And my blessing with thee and be thou blest.
In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
He made the sign of the Holy Cross above Rodrigo.
The ancient words settled around Rodrigo like a cloak, protecting him from harm. Tears touched his eyes and he crossed himself before rising.
“God, Mary, and St. Patrick be with you, Father.”
Father Michael brightened even more, recognizing the traditional Irish response to his blessing.
They smiled at each other, understanding far more than they could put into words of why they both needed that blessing.
MADRID, THAT AFTERNOON
Hélène drummed her fingers, ready to hurl the marine dictionary across the room. No matter how often she decoded the message, it still said the same thing. The same set of words, which evoked the same set of appalling memories.
“D’you think frowning will change the answer?” Jean-Marie set a glass of wine down in front of her on the library table.
“No.” She poured the extremely expensive port down her throat without regard for its quality. She’d learned very quickly vampiros were immune to becoming drunkards, although they usually savored the taste of fine drink as a substitute for eating.
He raised an eyebrow but refilled her glass without a word.
“Are you sure we can trust the servants?” she asked abruptly.
“Completely,” he replied and returned to his chair.
She lifted an eyebrow at the extremely succinct answer—and accepted it. If a man who saw life in shades of gray was certain of something, then it was completely true.
Since Jean-Marie was accompanying her, he deserved to know what they’d be doing.
“We are instructed to do everything possible,” she mimicked the tone of a haughty bureaucrat, “to protect the British army’s supply lines to the major western ports.”
He considered, his long legs stretched in front of him. “In other words—Lisbon, Oporto, Vigo, and Corunna. Lisbon is the Portugese capital—and Bonaparte’s target after Madrid.”
“Are you sure?”
“Capturing it would feed la gloire, the glory of France—and the legend of Napoleon.” Jean-Marie’s eyes were very cynical. “The British fleet is also there, supplying the British army.”
“It sounds—crowded. And obvious.”
“Very. Especially when it is in the southwest, and all of Napoleon’s troops are in the north and northeast.”
She set the paper down and rested her chin on her hands, watching every flicker crossing his face for a clue to his thoughts. He had far more experience at divining a leader’s intentions than anyone else she’d ever met. “Don’t you think he’ll march that far? His troops are famous for moving swiftly.”
“But Sir John Moore, with the British army, is in the west. If he can move quickly enough against the French army at the perfect moment, he could snap Napoleon’s attention away from the south. He’d save Lisbon and Portugal, plus all of southern Spain.”
“But his army is a fraction of Napoleon’s army’s size!” Hélène objected instinctively, imagining thousands of British soldiers slaughtered on a wintry field in the same way the Austrians and Russians had been at Austerlitz.
Jean-Marie shrugged. “Did I say it would be easy or safe? It’s the move of a master chess player and a great gambler. His port, in that case, would be Corunna,” he added. “And to help him, we’d have to race both him and Napoleon across Old Castile to the northern mountains.”
She shuddered.
He sipped his wine and waited.
Despite her horror at the potential cost of one alternative, she had to admit it held a certain logic. She nibbled on her fingernail. “You believe we only need to protect two supply routes—the one to Lisbon, in the southwest, and the other to Corunna, in the northwest.”
“Exactly.”
“Did Sir Andrew say which direction he’d be going?”
“No.”
She’d never had to make a decision like this before.
“In that case, we’ll go to Corunna.”
“Excellent.”
But his voice wasn’t quite as surprised as she’d expected.
She tilted her head. “Jean-Marie, what would you have done if I’d said Lisbon?”
“Deceived you into taking the Corunna road.” A slow wicked smile curled his lips.
“Wretch!” She ran at him and pretended to pummel him.
He caught her hands, laughing, and pulled her down into his lap for a kiss which closed out the world.
“I don’t know why I love you so much,” she whispered a very long time later. “You are arrogant, impossible…”
“Always willing to go off on mad adventures with you?”
“The best man in the world.” For as long as I have you.
NINE
OLD CASTILE, A WEEK LATER
Hélène moodily considered the sullen landscape spread out beneath her. Primarily built from flat plains cut by a single great river and its tributaries, Old Castile was notable for the great hills scattered across the landscape, most of them crowned by ruined castles. Seen in the fading moonlight, they seemed the work of lost kings and kingdoms, for whom the land itself mourned.
The peasants lived in villages, huddled by the fields and watercourses, deep within the shadows of those past glories. But they, too, remembered—and they hated invaders.
They’d refused to talk to her with her French accent, unless she used her most forceful forms of vampira mind persuasion on them. But they’d chatter to Jean-Marie, with his Spanish clothing and polite manners toward the women and clergy. He’d even spoken to some roaming bands of men in a familiar-sounding language called Gallego, which he’d learned year
s before from Monsieur Perez. She couldn’t stop her moue of distaste at the man’s name and Jean-Marie had abruptly ended the conversation.
They had an excellent idea of where they were and had only once been bothered by bandits and guerillas. She’d tossed a burning brand at the bandit leader’s hands, scaring off him and his followers. Jean-Marie and their two excellent riding mules were still well fed, compared to the world around them. The mules had even accepted her very well, probably because Monsieur Perez had previously accustomed them to vampiros.
His servants had remained in Madrid and planned to journey south away from the fighting. As members of an ancient comitiva family who’d served vampiros for generations, they had connections who’d help them find shelter.
She still hadn’t seen Celeste or the others, even though they’d traveled as fast as they could. They hadn’t heard any rumors of their capture, either, which was small comfort when her imagination was starting to stir up nightmares.
Such as now. She was standing atop what had once been a castle, but had since been reduced to a single watchtower and a wall. It was surprisingly sturdy, even if its gaping holes did make it resemble a bell tower more than a fortification. But she was high enough to see for miles, giving her a chance to spot any pursuers—or the people she followed. Their riding mules waited patiently below, the two sentries who kept watch during the day.
An isolated fire burned in the distance, close to what Jean-Marie had said was a road. A hut? Perhaps. But it cast much more light than she’d expect to see from the typical airless hovel.
A branch crackled.
She smiled faintly, recognizing Jean-Marie’s signal and his scent. He’d warned her in the beginning that compañeros had the strength and senses of cachorros, the very young vampiros. A week’s traveling had taught her he’d barely sketched out his knowledge and talents.
“Any news?” She held out her hand for him without turning around.
“Moore has made his move. The British army thrust hard toward Napoleon’s supply lines.” He wrapped his arms around her, lending her the comfort of his body. He’d put on a little weight, and his eyes weren’t as guarded.
Bond of Fire Page 14