It would be selfish of him to disturb her now, just because he couldn’t settle down. He stood, intending to walk. Surely tiring himself out on top of a night of no sleep would make his decision all the better, he mocked. Perhaps he would go by Claire’s tent, though he didn’t know what to say to her.
“Come with me,” a voice said, and he nearly jumped out of his skin.
“Mother? What are you doing here?”
In her black clothes, Beatriz blended into the darkness, even standing a few feet away. She’d removed her tall lace mantilla from her hair, but otherwise looked as if she hadn’t considered going to bed. Like his father, she’d aged in the last days. Unlike Julian, care had not taken the color from her hair, but instead added lines that pinched around her mouth and eyes. “I’ve been watching over my children for twenty-five years. You think I don’t know when something is troubling them? Come with me.”
“What? How did you—”
She took his arm and led him through the quiet camp toward the quarry. “I saw you go into your father’s tent, and I saw you weave like a drunkard when you came out. As if a child of mine would drink at a time like this.” She sniffed. “Then you sit here at this time of night. You who sleep like the dead waiting for the saints to raise them. I knew.”
They walked awhile in silence. All around them were tents and blackened fires, the people long abed, though somewhere sentries patrolled. She took him out of the shadows to where the moon gleamed silver on the sand. It slid and gave under his boots. The wind and clouds were nonexistent, holding their breath for the coming summer rains.
“What is it, my son?”
In everyday matters, he found his mother often silly or capricious, more likely to say something ridiculous, or put all her faith in the saints. But when push came to shove, as when he’d decided to enter the military, she showed a more thoughtful side. So he told her everything: How he knew where his duty lay, yet burned under the dishonorable treatment of an ally . . . a friend; the way his father forbid him to leave the camp with Claire.
She listened until he ran out of words as he babbled his uncertainty, then said, “Your father believes Lord Ordoño will rally the Northerners. That that army will return for us. I can see it in his face.”
“Is he a prophet now? He can see the future?” Ramiro joked as the tension pressed down and he needed some release. And because he didn’t want it to be true. Either of the groups of Northerners would only have to realize his people sat outside the walls, like chickens without a henhouse, and they’d be finished.
His mother took his words at their face value. “Father Telo told me and I’m sure he told your father. It is what the priest believes, and he’s the only one who spent time with the Northerners. They are driven by bloodthirstiness to appease their god. Why sacrifice your own people . . .”
“When you can use ours,” he finished for her. He had suspected as much, had witnessed at the swamp village how they killed by cutting off first a person’s hands, then head. They’d started the process with Father Telo but been unable to finish because Ramiro stopped them.
“Father Telo doesn’t believe they are the type to go home,” Beatriz whispered as if saying it aloud would make it so. She stopped them close to the edge of the quarry, yet not so near that he could look over the edge. Here, they were truly alone, except for the stars. “I felt what the witch’s magic did.”
“Claire,” he corrected automatically.
“I felt what the magic did.” She ignored his correction. “It was wicked. I don’t sense that in her, but what she did to frighten the Northerners, it was wrong—evil. God will punish us for that.”
He stared at her. Never had she preached to him of a vengeful God, but always of one loving and kind. A God who had sent the saints to protect and guide his children. The saints that had led them to establishing cities, giving up their nomad ways.
Her eyes didn’t look at him, but out over the quarry. “It was wrong to use it the first time. It would be worse to do it again knowingly. Sometimes . . . sometimes it is better to accept your fate than fight it with evil.” She shook herself and tugged at his arm, turning them around. “But none of that helps us. Done is done.
“Here you are worried about what you must do and what’s right, just like a man. But it isn’t up to you, is it? The one who really must decide is the witch. You must tell her what you told me and let her make up her mind. That is the right thing to do.”
“Claire,” he corrected again halfheartedly.
And again she ignored him, instead pointing at the sky and then waving her finger under his nose. “But not before light. It isn’t right to consort with an unmarried woman—especially when she’s a witch—before morning. One should wait until after noon, but I suppose I can pardon it this time.”
“Mother.”
“I know. I know. You don’t want to listen to your mother. Let me just say this to you. My mother was not thrilled with my choice of husband. She wanted me to marry a landowner, not a merchant. But Julian wasn’t a foreigner or . . . from a swamp.” She gave a nod. “You don’t know how this disappoints me.”
Ramiro rolled his eyes. “I think I do. But we are just friends—Claire and I—nothing more.” There, he’d said it aloud and made it true. They were friends—not that that would convince his mother. So he went for a better argument, one she would heed. “Sangre kin because of our relations killing one another. In that regard, she’s your kin, too.”
Beatriz pursed her lips in a pout. “Don’t be ridiculous. Sangre kin does not include—her kind.”
He squeezed her arm, pleased she hadn’t thrown witch at him again. From his mother that was progress. “Her kind? I believe you’re warming to Claire. And what would Santiago say about excluding people from his laws? It isn’t fitting of a godly people.”
“You leave the saints out of it.” She humphed and then chuckled. “You are too smart for your own good. Just like your father.” She released his arm and raised her chin. “Speak to the girl—after first light—and come see me afterward. No, better yet, leave it to me. I know your father can’t show you any favoritism, but I can.”
Father Telo said the prayer for the dying. One hand gripped the unconscious soldier’s arm, the other reached for his triple-rope belt, the symbol of his office. His nub dragged against the rough cloth of his robe, and Telo’s prayer faltered as pain rode up his entire arm to his shoulder.
The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.
Telo gritted his teeth and managed to cross heart, mind, liver, and spleen as he finished the prayer and collapsed back on the camp stool the healers had set out for him. This was the first day he’d dressed and put on his sandals, and his feet were none too steady yet. He’d no taste for meat or drink, leaving him weak—though life continued. All around him, people moved in the large healer tent, but he sat in an island of quiet with only the ragged gasps for air of the soldier before him.
The Lord taketh away.
He glanced at the bandaged nub of his left arm, then back to the dying man. The Lord had left him much more than this poor soul—passing alone, without even his family for comfort. A patrol had apparently run into a small party of Northerners. The enemy had been dispatched, but this soldier went to meet the saints. No amount of healing skill or prayer could hold back the inevitable.
One-handed, Telo tucked the man’s blanket closer to his chin and smoothed the gray wool on the man’s chest. Would that he could do more.
Father Vellito always complimented Telo on his generous heart. Yet, he found compassion a small thing in these troubled times. Scripture taught to have faith and look to hope. Faith, hope, and charity.
Well, he could provide the last, but the other two were in short supply.
Telo shook his head at his poor wit. Not even the loss of a hand seemed to dampen his mind’s ability to be irreverent. Would he never learn? And at a deathbed no less. “Lord have pity on this poor soul and send some for myself. We both need i
t sorely.”
Compassion he had, but silent vigil had never been Telo’s strong suit. All too soon his mind wandered, so he stretched out his arms, examining what remained. His right hand sported callouses on the dark skin and prominent knuckles, proof that as a wandering friar, he’d done his fair share of labor and even brawled with bandits of the desert. The other ended two inches above where his wrist should be. Cut off at the direction of the Northern priestess, Santabe. She had never liked him from the unfortunate moment they’d met, having small allowance for priests of other faiths—or anyone, for that matter. He prayed she found tolerance in her captivity, but not even Santiago himself could work that miracle.
Telo should have lost both hands and then his head, but the First Wife’s son had interrupted before they could finish the job. Divine intervention the bishop and Father Vellito would homily. Telo wished that it had come just a few minutes earlier and saved him much agony.
Or a few minutes later.
Perhaps it should have.
If he had not harbored impure thoughts—if he’d been more worthy of rescue. If he had not considered using these very hands to strangle the leader of the Northern army.
He tucked the nub of his stump across his chest and under his armpit, where the pressure he exerted on it somehow brought comfort. The unhealed wound throbbed in time with his heartbeat as he reflected on sin in all its guises. There could be no worse transgression than the sin of murder. Though he hadn’t followed through on his thought, he’d given it consideration. Didn’t that make him just as guilty as actually committing the sin?
Wasn’t that why rescue had come late for him?
Ridiculous, his mind rebuffed, but deep in his heart, his conscience said that was the case. For the last few days, it had struck him repeatedly as truth. It made no matter that the priest who confessed him waved it off as the remorse of an injured man and bade him do penitence for pride. Perhaps it was pride to believe the Lord would take notice of a lowly friar. Telo gladly did the penance and went beyond with extra, but that did not erase the belief deep inside that the loss of his hand had been a lesson.
Oddly enough, he’d never been one to look for signs. Needing signs from the saints—whether that be in the form of a tomato with San Pedro’s face or a burning bush—had never interested Telo. It was asking for proof, requiring that one see to believe. Faith had always been enough for him. Have faith in Me and the Lord will have faith in you.
But . . . things changed.
Telo frowned. If the loss of his hand were a sign, what did it urge him to do?
Its loss came from sinful thoughts, then ought he to act in the opposite manner? To give more compassion and tolerance? To forgive? He had struggled with this for days to no avail, waking from feverish dreams of being a captive of the Northerners.
A captive.
He was no longer the captive. Instead, he’d changed places with Santabe in that regard.
Now, the answer came to him in a blinding light: He must forgive the heathen priestess.
He must go to Santabe and say the words—speaking them in prayer was not enough. He would make this right with their Lord by doing right by their captive.
With a start, he realized the area around him had gone quiet. Healers still bustled around the large tent and men still moaned and cried out in suffering. But the dying man in front of him had ceased to breathe, had passed in peace.
Telo said the prayer of passing and tugged up the blanket over the poor man’s slack face. The Lord worked in his own time. One never knew when it would run out. He would go at morning’s first light. It was time to leave this tent and return to the world. He had much to do.
Chapter 8
As Claire crawled backward out of her tent, a voice at her elbow said, “Good, you’re up.” Claire jumped, tangling her head in the top of the tiny tent. When no hands grabbed her or knife came at her, she ignored her thudding heart to turn and see First Wife Beatriz waiting on her.
“Put on those trousers I gave you. We’re going riding.”
Claire gaped. “Riding?” As far as she knew, Beatriz never left the camp. And had certainly never appeared this early before.
“Yes, riding.” Hands went to hips and a no-nonsense gleam appeared in the First Wife’s eye. “Stop dawdling. I swear you’re as slow as my sons . . . son.” A quiver hit her lip, there and gone in an instant. “Well, hurry up. Breakfast is waiting.”
Claire obediently crawled back in the tent and struggled to pull on the trousers—black like all the clothes given to her—in the tight space. Something odd was going on, but there was only one way to find out what. Refusing would achieve nothing with this woman. Besides, one listened to one’s elders. Her hands faltered. Beatriz reminded her in one crucial way of her own mother—just as determined and controlling.
“And pack up all your things while you’re in there,” First Wife Beatriz called loud enough to be heard over half the camp. “We’re getting you a bigger tent!”
Claire froze. Now she knew something odd was going on. She quickly stuffed her few belongings into her bags, rolled up her blanket, and had hardly escaped the tent with her boots and bags before a group of servants descended on it, pulling up the stakes and laying the canvas out flat.
She hopped up to Beatriz, pulling on her boots and settling her golden braid over her shoulder. She pulled pins from her pocket to fasten her hair up with. “What’s going on?”
“We’re having breakfast first, that’s what. Come along. And leave your hair down today. It makes you look younger.”
Claire stuffed the pins back in her pocket. All the women had always urged her to wear her hair up like an adult, and she was happy to comply. Why in the world would they want her to look younger? She needed someone who would give her straight answers. “Where’s Ramiro?”
“Meeting with the capitáns. They summoned him for his expertise.” Beatriz’s spine stiffened with obvious pride, but once again, the words came out much too loud.
Claire frowned, but before she could say anything a thin little man with wispy brown hair that allowed his scalp to show through joined them.
“Concejal Lugo.” Beatriz’s eyes had gone flat as had her voice.
“First Wife,” the man said with false pleasure. “Where is your husband? I expect he would have something important to say to our gracious guest.” He gave Claire a stiff bow, but she couldn’t help but notice how he kept his distance, as if he would be contaminated if too close to the “witch.”
“As it happens, Concejal, he asked me to see to it,” Beatriz said. “A woman’s delicate touch as you know.”
The man stepped closer. “I don’t believe that is part of the duties of a First Wife, but I bow to Alcalde Julian’s expertise. Allow me to sit with you.”
Beatriz gritted her teeth. “Not necessary, good sir.”
“I insist.”
He took Beatriz’s elbow and reached for Claire’s arm. Claire stepped back, tense. Whatever was happening here was all about her, and her instincts said to run.
The First Wife threw her forearm across her face, covering her eyes. “This man is bothering me,” she pronounced loudly. “I shall faint.”
Instantly, a wall of green and gray uniforms formed between her and the man called Lugo. As Claire watched, the soldiers stepped forward, making the little man retreat before them. He tried to dodge around them and was smoothly intercepted and forced back.
“Return to your tent, sir. The First Wife doesn’t want to be bothered,” one said. “We will escort you.”
“I am a concejal!” The man Lugo blustered and complained, but it did him no good. The soldiers pushed him farther and farther back without ever laying a hand on him until they vanished into the camp.
Claire turned to catch a smile being wiped off Beatriz’s face. “Some friends of Salvador’s,” Beatriz said. “They watch over me. Ramiro might have suggested they be here this morning.” The woman gave a nod. “Come into the tent. His spies are s
till out here.”
Claire followed, trying to look everywhere at once. There were a lot of people about near the Alcalde’s tent: servants, messengers, and more soldiers. Several people without an obvious reason to be there loitered about. It could be any of them. A half dozen in rather dirty clothing, wearing the ponchos Claire had learned were favored by the poor, waited on their knees. They stared openly at her.
“Is it them?” she asked, trying not to point too directly.
“Oh no,” Beatriz said, leading the way into the large tent. “Those are here to look at you. They think you caused a miracle and want to see if you’ll perform another.”
Claire blinked, her astonishment growing by the second. “Me?” The sun beat down on her head, making it ache—or perhaps it was the activity already this morning.
“That’s the third group today.” Beatriz came back to fetch her as Claire stood at the entrance. “The belief in your saintliness seems to be catching on.” A servant slipped Claire’s bags out of her hand and set them in the shade. Beatriz gestured, and a soldier began getting the kneelers on their feet and sending them on their way. “You’re quite popular in some circles,” Beatriz said.
“A miracle? It was magic.”
“Aye. But where does the magic come from?” Beatriz regarded her quizzically, then her eyes softened. “I never thought of that before, but we are all the Lord’s creatures after all . . . Claire. Scripture says the Lord plays no favorites. Why not a witch as a saint?” Beatriz looked like she wanted to bite off her tongue.
Claire choked, whether because of the idea or because Beatriz had used her name, she couldn’t tell. The next thing she knew, she was sitting at the table with the First Wife. “My mother never told me where the magic comes from. It always was. I didn’t think to ask.” How could she be so foolish and have never dug deeper when she had the time? She regretted every lost opportunity now.
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