“Very well.” She rose, shaking out her skirts. She’d sponged out the worst of the mud after they’d brought her safely off that cliff.
“If you’ll tell us where your luggage is, I’ll send a man to fetch it.”
Her stomach knotted, and she fought the need to wrap her arms around herself and keen her grief. Go back to the rooms where she’d last shared love with Jean-Marie? And relive those last happy moments? No!
“Ma’am? If you don’t have any luggage, I’m sure General Moore’s chief exploring officer can provide you with some clothes.” Despite the major’s evident caution in dealing with her, at least he was clever enough to know General Moore’s chief spy had the resources and the knowledge to cope.
“I have no baggage worth reclaiming, major.” Let the honest landlord have their clothing, whenever he decided to search the rooms. “I am ready to depart whenever you wish.”
“As you wish, ma’am.”
CASTRO SANCHEZ, THREE DAYS LATER
Jean-Marie turned his back on the devastated plaza after two days of searching and refused to scream—or curse God. Either would have been satisfying. Neither would have solved anything.
He’d managed to grab a large beam, part of the roadbed’s supports, and hold on to it during a wild ride downstream. Water, stone, and mud had all done their best to batter him into pieces—but that was nothing compared to arriving back here and learning nobody knew what had happened to his gentle lady. They’d all seen the bridge destroyed and the tower nearly shattered. But they hadn’t seen any survivors.
The French had killed her, as surely as if they’d put a gun to her head.
He smiled mirthlessly. And for that, he’d carry out her work as her memorial. It was the least he could do for her.
Hélène, his only love. He’d become a vampiro for her.
Une éternité d’amour ne paraîtrait jamais que passagère. Loving you forever doesn’t seem like long enough.
He had to reach San Leandro, despite two warring armies on the main road and impassable winter snows in the northern mountains. He started walking north, his pack on his back.
Barely an hour later, he slipped and fell into the river again, the waves tumbling him like a child’s toy. He staggered out of the water and collapsed, gasping for breath but bitterly determined.
A dozen Spaniards, very roughly dressed, thin but still showing signs of strength, watched him warily. Taller than most on the Iberian Peninsula. More than one had blue eyes, while several had blond hair. A small fire burned behind them, half-hidden among the willow trees.
Hands returned to pockets, evidence they now considered him a threat rather than someone to be rescued.
Jean-Marie blinked and shook his head, clearing the water from his face. Swaying slightly, he took a chance on the language Rodrigo had taught him for very private conversations.
“Bon día, señores. ¿Comos está?” he greeted them politely in Gallego.
Their faces immediately brightened, and they overwhelmed him with a flood of the same language.
He damn near collapsed in relief.
Thanks be to God, he’d found a group of migrant Galician workers returning to their homes in the northwest. They were probably delayed by dodging provincial juntas who wanted to draft them into local armies. They’d recognized him as another stranger in a strange land and welcomed him.
Strong arms helped him to the fire, while others built it higher.
“Do you know where San Leandro is?”
“Of course, grandfather,” they assured him. “We are taking the smugglers’ road to the coast, then the old pilgrims’ route to Santiago. We will pass by San Leandro and can take you there.”
Grandfather? Nom de Dieu, had his hair turned that gray so quickly? He laughed—and spluttered on an unexpected mouthful of water.
Someone shoved a cup of thin soup into his hand, somebody else draped a blanket over his shoulder, and two men began to strip his boots off his feet.
This should work—as long as the winter snows didn’t turn brutal before they could cross the high northern mountains to safety, the route all the armies had already deemed impossible.
SAN LEANDRO, THAT NIGHT
Rodrigo’s heart was pounding in his ears, and his breath rasped through his throat. Overhead, feet shuffled softly as nuns prepared the church for evening services, their voices a muted river of timeless customs retold.
Simple iron candelabra swung from the ceiling, illuminating the glory of vaulted stone whose beauty could make cathedrals take flight. Behind Rodrigo burned the banks of votive candles he and others had lighted to lift their prayers to heaven.
He was alone in San Rafael Arcángel’s crypt—except for the tombs of his wife and children.
Blanche, his heart’s delight. The unknown carver had honored her as a daughter of the church, placing her in an attitude of eternal prayer with her hands pressed firmly together. He’d faithfully shown her habit as a married sister of Santiago, the warrior monks whose order Rodrigo had joined as a novice five hundred years ago.
Somehow he’d also recreated her alertness and warmth, the vibrancy which had made her the light of Rodrigo’s life from the moment he first saw her.
Rodrigo almost expected her to sit up and start talking to him. Perhaps it was because he’d spent years recounting to himself every second of their few short years together, until every shining note of her laughter was as clear to him now as the day he’d first heard it. Or the wry patience behind her wise words, or the anticipatory gleam in her eyes when she waited to go upstairs with him at night…
He missed all of that and more with a bone-chilling ache the centuries had done little to ease.
For family. Someone like Inez, the daughter he’d never seen walk this earth, although her effigy lay within a few paces. Or Fernando, the son who’d been a famous warrior and beloved patron of these lands. Or Beatriz, whose beauty and compassion were legendary as far south as Toledo. All the grandchildren he’d prayed would find health and prosperity, and their children.
His gut twisted, tearing him apart worse than anything he’d experienced during his centuries of captivity.
He dropped to his knees and prayed for peace, for a new beginning. For something more than what he had. For what he couldn’t have clearly said…
Hours—or minutes—later, boots thudded on the stone, bringing him onto his feet to face the newcomer. He flushed slightly, embarrassed for having overreacted in these sacred precincts. “Señor Alvarez.”
“Please forgive me for having disturbed you,” Luis Alvarez apologized from the foot of the stairwell. He twisted his hat, straightening an already immaculate brim. “I can return later if you’d prefer.”
“No, there is no need for that,” Rodrigo spread his hands. “There is more than enough grace here for both of us.”
Alvarez nodded acceptance. “My daughter is expecting my first grandchild,” he explained, coming forward into the light. “It’s tradition to light candles and ask Doña Blanche to watch over her.”
Rodrigo blinked. His darling had never had an easy time in childbirth.
“It is a woman’s custom.” Alvarez shrugged, flashing his easy smile. “More men than not honor it as well—but we do it when we won’t be seen.”
“I won’t speak of it to anyone,” Rodrigo assured him, “if you’ll tell me the origins.” He joined the other, looking across the quiet space filled with his sleeping children.
“Doña Blanche was the matriarch of a very large family. Only three children—but thirty-one grandchildren and more than seventy great-grandchildren, every one healthy and happy. All of us here carry their blood in our veins. Who would not wish that for their children?”
“Who indeed?” Rodrigo muttered, remembering all the hours he’d spent on his knees in that stinking cell in his captor’s castle, praying his descendants be given the joy and health he was denied. Dios, no wonder Luis looked like him—he’d have to be some sort of great-great-g
randson.
“Doña Blanche was a holy woman, who spent as much time doing good deeds for the people as she did for her own family.”
Rodrigo nodded, remembering how often she’d blistered his ears for paying more attention to politics than the common folk.
“Her passage into heaven was graced by the archbishop and bishop’s prayers. All of her children were there, as well as her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. It is said so many priests and nuns sang, that the angels themselves wept.” Alvarez’s eyes unashamedly glimmered with tears. “Her last words were of her husband, of course. She told her children not to mourn, since he’d come again to San Leandro.”
“What?” Rodrigo croaked. He swayed and caught himself against the wall, unsteady atop knees that suddenly seemed to be made of straw.
“Sí, Doña Blanche was deeply in love with Don Rodrigo, the great knight who went away on crusade.”
“Great knight?”
“The battles he fought? And the tournament against the French champion? Parry left, thrust right!” Grinning, Alvarez mimed the moves exactly—to Rodrigo’s startled fascination. “The stories of his life have been passed down through the generations, exactly as Doña Blanche first told them. It would take an entire winter to recount all the great songs and the poetry written about him.”
Rodrigo gaped, unable to form words. Just as he’d retold himself every minute of his life with her in order to keep her alive in his heart, Blanche had ensured he’d be remembered here.
“Even now, we know Don Rodrigo is our knight, and he lives somewhere. The legend promises he will return when his people’s need is the greatest.”
¡Imposible! Yet Alvarez’s expression was as steadfast as when he drove cattle across a stream and through a muddy field.
“Do you believe all of that?” Rodrigo asked, his voice fading to a whisper.
“I believe there is more than the good doctor can readily explain from his leather-bound books. I believe a good woman’s love and faith can work miracles beyond a man’s understanding. I will not turn my back on something I have not seen disproven.” Alvarez’s eyes met his, dark and quite serious.
“Alvarez, amigo, no mortal man can live five centuries.”
“I have told you this as one Perez to another.” The other clapped him on the shoulder, eyes boring into his from the same level. “You resemble Don Rodrigo, as many of us do—since we are descendants of his children.”
“No,” Rodrigo denied instinctively. Had he guessed Rodrigo truly was Doña Blanche’s husband?
“His blood runs true, amigo, even in distant cousins. Have faith—and trust God will answer a good woman’s prayers when He deems the time is right.”
When Rodrigo didn’t answer, Alvarez shook his head compassionately. “There’s no need to talk more about this today. I will return later to say my prayers.”
Rodrigo lifted his hand in farewell, deliberately ignoring the last unbelievable words. A prophecy saying he would return to save these people? He, the knight who’d chosen to let damsels die? Admittedly, it was while his creador was trying to break him during those centuries of torture. He’d given Rodrigo the brutal choice: Become an assassin, murdering anyone and everyone ordered to—or watch another damsel die. Rodrigo had believed it the lesser of two evils to watch the ladies pass into the next life, rather than become a killer for all eternity.
Even so, their blood still stained his hands, no matter how often he prayed for their souls or had masses said for them. He was not worthy of saving anyone, since he’d failed the basic oath to protect women and virgins!
No, he could not be the one whose return was foretold.
Far, far better to ponder the incredible gift his beloved darling had given him.
“Blanche,” Rodrigo whispered. He dropped to his knees before his lady’s tomb. You gave me a family. A small town full of people, carrying my blood, many of them bearing my likeness. Because of you—and the stories you left behind—they welcome me as one of their own.
Family.
Giddiness welled up deep inside him, as when his darling had first told him she was carrying their child.
He threw back his head and flung out his arms, embracing his wife and children—and the family beyond.
His, by the grace of God and his wife’s love.
ALONG THE RIVER ESLA IN LEÓN, THE SAME NIGHT
The squalid Spanish village dozed uneasily under the midnight sky, too full of French boots and muskets to openly fret. Couriers trotted briskly up and down the steps of the largest house, saddlebags slung over their shoulders. French cavalrymen from the Imperial Guard, the Emperor’s “Favored Children,” stood watch in the plaza. Their cynical eyes and well-oiled weapons announced they’d earned their gorgeous uniforms by being the best in battle.
Too many men and too many guards for a single regiment or even a corps, judging by what Celeste had been told in Britain. Who then?
She shot her escort a considering look but continued to follow him meekly into the house. Nobody ever lived to argue twice with a vampiro mayor. She was damned lucky he hadn’t killed her for not bringing the codebook when she escaped Sir Andrew.
She’d told them everything she knew. The only remaining question was what would happen to her next. She couldn’t always be used against British spies, since those devils would sooner or later realize she’d changed sides—even if Sir Andrew didn’t make it back to England.
Did she want to work as a spy somewhere else in Europe? Russia perhaps or Austria?
She pulled a face and swept her skirts safely away from another soldier’s boots. Ragged peasant’s clothing, in tatters like her plans for destroying Hélène. She’d prefer to rest and regain her composure—perhaps even enjoy the finer things in life again, which had been wrongfully denied to her for so long. But how?
The upper hallway displayed half a dozen men, all garbed in still more glamorous uniforms and bustling about carrying neat leather portfolios, full of papers. Another edged past her, carefully holding a covered silver tray surmounted by an eagle.
An imperial eagle.
Napoleon was here? Why on earth did he want to see her? Did she care?
A guard quickly opened the final door for the servant, grinning at a shared joke. As soon as the door closed, his tanned face swiftly solidified into a suspicious visage again, underlined by the crooked scar splitting his forehead.
Despite herself, Celeste shivered. The penalties for failure would be dealt quickly and ruthlessly in these quarters.
Her escort marched directly up to the same guard, who looked only slightly friendlier than his cohort. A whispered conversation ensued, throughout which the guards eyed her with all the enthusiasm of butchers considering hogs in a marketplace. As if whispering would keep her from hearing anything she chose!
Finally they knocked and opened the door, in response to a growled reply.
“Celeste de Sainte-Pazanne, as you requested, Your Majesty.” The vampiro mayor bowed deeply.
Dark eyes swept over her like a thunderbolt. Why, he was just a prosaico! Uncommonly charismatic with those eyes and the force of will blazing out of him. Raoul had always set maidens sighing, but this fellow never would, if you concealed his eyes. Even so, he was a man—and fond of bedtime diversions by all accounts.
Perhaps if she always had a lover to protect her, life would improve. And who better than the Emperor?
“Your majesty.” She sank into her lowest curtsy, her eyes sweeping over him lasciviously before her lashes veiled them. She focused her power as tightly as she could, gambling nobody else would hear her.
Desire me, she commanded the Emperor of the French. Desire me …
A chair was shoved back against the wall. Celeste kept her eyes modestly lowered and her smirk completely private. A well-kept hand lifted her up.
“My dear lady.” Napoleon patted her hand. “Welcome home. We thank you for your great services to us and to France.”
His passionate
eyes swept boldly over her.
She allowed herself to smile. Encouragingly, of course.
SAN LEANDRO, JANUARY 1809
Sunset touched the high peaks, gilding a few bits of snow but utterly failing to penetrate the forests or warm the great granite massif.
From high atop the ancient watchtower, Rodrigo measured it and the passing of time, wondering yet again if he should hire men to guard the bridge into San Leandro. Few strangers would travel that road in the dark, with a howling wind in their face. This fortress guarded the northern road, with its coastal trade and seaborne raiders in ages past. He’d rented the house attached to it, even though it was almost a mile outside the town proper.
Days had passed since the last refugees had passed through, fleeing the desperate British army and the pursuing French.
They’d told horrible tales of battles conducted amid the mountains, with men and beasts dying of exhaustion as much as wounds. Any civilians caught in their paths could be destroyed by battle—or demands for food, supplies, and shelter. Most frightening of all, the French made a practice of doing so, backing up their voracious appetite with murder and rapine.
But none of those horrors had touched San Leandro. Gracias a Dios, no French raiding party had reached this valley, even though they were in Lugo a day’s walk away.
Rodrigo had Seen the French coming to San Leandro but not by which road or exactly when. That was the damnable thing about his gift—it was most useful about disasters for his people. But it didn’t foretell specifics, and it said less and less the closer events came to him or those he loved.
He’d spent his time doing what he could for the people, even though he’d only be here a few months. He’d hired men to improve the roads and rebuild walls. Women had made cheeses and sausages, storing them deep in caves to last through the winter. He now had mobility and provisions, a military commander’s prerequisites for waging war.
If he used those roads and provisions to build an army, he’d be usurping the rights and honor of this land’s rightful lord. Yet if he didn’t, the ones he’d come to love could be destroyed. Alvarez, with his wife and three lovely daughters. Emilio, Alvarez’s son-in-law with his blatant adoration for his heavily expectant wife. Father Michael’s delight in little children, and old Sanchez the baker’s ability to know every man and woman in town…
Bond of Fire Page 17