by Ken Hood
"I might. I wonder whether he's as crazy as he pretends to be. Senor Francisco, is the Senora's packhorse carrying gold?"
The squire choked. "Gold, senor? Whatever... Why would you think such a thing?" His horrified expression said that it did, or at least he suspected that it did. He could have seen how the bags were handled when it was loaded and unloaded.
"There doesn't seem much on its back, and yet it walks as if it had a heavy burden. Doesn't matter." Toby must make his decision soon. "The don has to ride at the front of course."
"Of course!" Even Francisco could not imagine any other arrangement, and Don Ramon himself believed he was leading a train of a hundred—knights in livery, beautiful ladies on white horses, banners flying, band playing. It was a beautiful picture, but it wasn't real.
Nevertheless, Miguel and Rafael were the nearest thing he had to fighting men, so he had put them at the rear. The horses wouldn't like the mule, anyway. The only other man who might strike a blow, Father Guillem, he had set in the middle. And himself at the front.
"I suppose Senor Brusi is paying most of the fee, so he insists on being as close to his guard as he can be?"
"Only the king might insist with Don Ramon, senor. It is by his command that the senor travels there."
A command that conveniently forestalled argument. So the order of march made good sense, but might be mere luck. If Toby were to take charge now, what would he do? Move the two peasants to the center and put the new men at the rear? No, probably send one man on ahead to scout for trouble and have the other patrol back and forth along the line, herding the sheep.
Don Ramon had reined in to await the deputation.
"Senor?" Francisco whispered. "He would really like you and your companions to join our troupe, although I admit his way of expressing himself is a little strange. We should all like it. What do I tell him?"
"That we pray to be considered worthy of entering his service."
The squire beamed, but only briefly. "You will be careful, both of you? His honor is all he has left in the world."
"It will be safe with us," Toby said. "I am not at liberty to explain this, senor, but I have a deep respect for Don Ramon. To serve him will be a privilege."
Surprise, suspicion, then recollection... "You knew his name!"
"And I honor it. Pepita, you have to dismount now. This mule needs a rest." Toby reached up to lift the girl down, then discarded his pack and staff. He accompanied Francisco over to the boy on the big horse. The don stared down at them with his customary arrogance.
The squire dismounted and doffed his cap in a low bow. "Senor, Captain Longdirk entreats you to accept him and his troop into your service."
"Of course. Did you expect him to pass up the opportunity of a lifetime?" Don Ramon looked expectantly at the new recruit and bent just enough to offer a hand, palm down.
Toby bowed, unsure what was expected of him and not entirely certain of his own intentions even yet. He looked up at the sea-blue eyes and the utter contempt in them. He was, said those eyes, dirt. But the don had looked at him like that—exactly like that—when he was on the scaffold, facing the headsman's ax. Any man capable of such defiance at the lintel of death was a man indeed.
"Senor, my company and I will be honored to serve you." Until I cut off your head. He kissed the pale fingers. He stepped back, bowing three times, as he had seen the don himself do.
The don showed no sign of emotion at the touching ceremony, other than a sneer which said that of course the stupid foreigner had done it all wrong but his ignorance would be overlooked this time. "Now, Captain Whatever-your-name-is, send some troopers to scout ahead. They are to keep their eyes peeled at all times for possible ambush. I want no heroics—at the slightest hint of trouble they are to run back like rabbits and report to me personally, is that clear? And set some others to patrolling the column, to make the stragglers keep up. Look lively!"
"As the caballero commands." Toby saluted and went back to issue the necessary orders to his company.
Hamish had heard all that, and his expression was rarer than diamonds.
"Look lively now, Sergeant Jaume!" Toby said. "Take a dozen of our best men and escort Senorita Pepita back to Brother Bernat. After that, ride herd on the civilians and make sure they keep moving along."
"Aye, aye, sir!"
"And brush up your Catalan. Your accent's terrible."
Hamish said something in breathy Catalan, too quick to catch. It did not sound respectful, and the grin that followed it certainly wasn't.
CHAPTER FIVE
Scouting was an easy thing to do badly, a hard one for a lone man to do well. By rights Toby ought to zigzag back and forth across the entire width of the valley, from height of land to height of land, while investigating every bush or rock in between, but there were limits to how much ground even his legs could cover and still keep him a reasonable distance in front of the main band. Fortunately his pack was lighter than it had been.
Unfortunately, it was growing ominously light, and his solitary wandering gave him time to brood over a very grim-looking future. One of the rules of field craft he had picked up in his mongrel career as soldier, peddler, teamster, smuggler, and most often fugitive, was that a man on foot could rarely carry more than ten days' rations. While he was unusually strong and not much encumbered with other gear, he had an appetite to match his size and bore Gracia's share on his back as well as his own. He estimated they had only seven days' supplies left. Hamish's pack was mostly filled with books, of course. They would not reach Barcelona in seven days. When they did, they would not find it built of gingerbread.
When he wasn't worrying about food, he worried about Oreste and himself chopping off Hamish's head.
Around noon he came to a burned-out casa. Nothing remained of the main house except fire-blackened two-story walls with secretive little window openings, and the destroyers had gone to a great deal of trouble to waste the surrounding crops, vines, and olive trees. Only the weeds prospered, already moving in to conceal evidence—a table leg, an anonymous charred bone, half a child's doll—but the ruins were deserted and there was water in the well, so it would be a good place to make the midday halt. He signaled to Don Ramon, receiving a wave from Francisco in acknowledgment. Then he placed his pack on top of a thick, head-high wall. As a picnic site it lacked shade, but it commanded a good view of the countryside.
By the time the pilgrims arrived, he had filled the water trough. Hamish quickly began assisting Senora Collel's party, probably so he could stay close to Eulalia. Old Salvador Brusi made straight for the nearest patch of shade, leaving Josep to tend the horses, although he was obviously unskilled with them. Toby went to help him unload.
Clumsy the youngster might be, but he spoke Castilian and could understand Toby's polyglot jabber. "I apologize for my father's rudeness earlier, senor," he said diffidently.
"I am sorry I barked back at him. How far have you come?"
"With the don? From Toledo. How long will it take us to reach Barcelona?"
"At this rate about a hundred years. The mule slows us. It is overburdened."
"Yes. Often has the don told them so and made them carry half its load themselves, but as soon as his back is turned they put it all on the mule again."
"Your horses could carry more. Will you consent to take some of their goods?"
Josep glanced anxiously in his father's direction. "I shall ask, senor."
"Without trying to charge a fee, of course."
The young man smiled wanly. "That will certainly be the problem."
"It is to your advantage that we make better time."
Having established to his own satisfaction that the Brusi baggage included substantially more than seven days' food and several suspiciously heavy bags that might well contain gold, Toby returned to his pack. Hamish was already there, perched on the wall and unwrapping some of the inevitable beans. Gracia had been invited to dine with Senora Collel, who must either have ample prov
isions or else did not understand the danger of starvation.
The overall picture was dismal—the three women under an orange tree that had somehow survived the devastation, the two clerics and Pepita near the well, the Rafael-Miguel foursome in another corner, the Brusis also by themselves. He looked around for the don and his squire, but they had ridden off to the nearest hillock.
"A friendly lot," he observed.
"They're frightened," Hamish said, chewing. "Senora Collel is furious because she has to sleep in the open. She brought no tent. She expected comfortable inns, because that was what she enjoyed when she went south. She says it was most inconsiderate of the invaders to burn the inns."
"Fear ought to make them unite. Or the don should. That's what a leader is for."
"He's crazy! Mad as a wet cat."
"So is Gracia. It's the war, I think. I'm not even sure of old Brusi, if he's trying to carry gold without a proper escort. And I'm crazier than any of them." Toby did not really think he was crazy, but he suspected the hob was. "We all should get along famously."
Hamish grinned. "It's lonely being the only sane man in the world. You're right about Brusi. Senora Collel says he got such a good price from the don that he couldn't resist the bargain."
"Oh? And what's her excuse?"
The grin widened. "She heard about Brusi and thought he was shrewd enough to know what he was doing, so she signed up too. None of them had any idea how bad the devastation was." He tugged a weighty book from his pack.
"What's that one about?" Toby asked.
"Hmm? Catalan verse. You did tell me to brush up my Catalan."
"You planning to quote poetry to Eulalia?"
Hamish looked up, wide-eyed with hope. "Would that work?"
"I've heard it can be quite effective. And if you think it will help, you can tell her that Gracia and I are lovers."
Hamish turned faintly pink. "I already did." He began to read with great concentration.
Poor Hamish! Since the evening of the day his voice broke, he had been making advances to pretty girls. Even now that his beard had grown in—a little scanty in spots, but an honest beard—they still seemed to think of him as only a boy. He had no trade or land or family prospects. Possibly he was too intellectual, all head and no heart, and probably too solemn and serious, although he was witty enough with men. It was definitely time to send him home to the glen to wed some bonnie lass and raise another generation of schoolteachers.
And poor Toby! He had the opposite problem. Since Mezquiriz, he dared not even think about women in case he reminded the hob of Jeanne.
Oh, Jeanne!
Hamish yawned. They were both worn threadbare by too many broken nights.
"If you drop off up here," Toby said, "then you will drop off. Take a nap." He would not. The don must not catch them both sleeping on duty.
Hamish peered at him blearily. "Half and half? Wake me in an hour?"
"Promise."
Hamish closed his book and jumped down. He stretched out on the grass and was snoring in seconds.
Toby retrieved the sword from his pack and fashioned a loop of rope as a baldric for it, thinking the sight of it might make the pilgrims more inclined to accept him as a guard. Worried he might go to sleep in the heat, he clambered down and walked around to see to the others. They were all doing what Hamish was. There was no sign of Don Ramon or Francisco.
The landscape baked in silence, nothing moving under the sun, not a bird in the empty blue sky. He went off to the remains of the vineyard to see if the birds and insects had overlooked any grapes. The vines were grown on the ground, not on trellises, and he waded knee-high through rustling brown leaves, pushing branches aside with his sword. He found only a few moldy raisins to eat, but it passed the time.
Help soon arrived in the person of Eulalia, slender and slyly smiling, who had no doubt feigned sleep to evade her mistress and was now elated to have the big young stranger to herself. That he would be equally pleased she would not doubt, nor should she—her shapeless servant garb could not completely deny the lure of the body within. Her robe was of coarse brown fabric, long-sleeved to cover everything except face and hands, decorated crudely with strips of yellow and orange, probably by herself. A darker cloth covered her head, but the casing on her braid hung to her waist, and nothing could disguise the magic of the dark eyes, the sculptured perfection of features, the complexion like aged ivory. Dress her as a princess and she would be one. Small wonder Hamish had lost his wits already.
She had as few words of Castilian as Toby of Catalan. Speech could help little, but shiny red lips and dark eyes said everything.
"Are you finding any, senor?"
"No. A few."
She knelt to search among the leaves. In a moment she said something excited and beckoned him. When he squatted to see, she popped a raisin in his mouth. Her eyes again, the smile, her hand on his thigh...
He stood up and shook his head. "Not me, senorita. Try Jaume."
She glared at him and caught his wrist, trying to pull him down beside her. He walked away, conscious of sweat, the oppressive heat, the pounding of his heart. He despised himself for them and the lingering tingle in his loins. Were all men so easily tempted, or was he a weakling? How did other men keep their self-control in such situations?
Many didn't, he supposed. He was not the only bastard in the world.
He paced around, afraid to settle. Guard duty was more interesting at night, when a single cracking twig might be the only warning. Here, the empty landscape made it too easy. There was no sign of the don—had he left his new deputy in charge, or did he hope to catch him neglecting his duty? What disaster had brought a hidalgo to such penury that he could afford no better arms than discards and no squire except an old man with crippled feet?
Seeing that Eulalia had returned to the senora, he went back to the vineyard and scavenged some more. Later he saw a chicken in the undergrowth and spent time stalking it. It would not have survived so long had it not learned to be wary, and it eluded him. He did not waken Hamish. He had never intended to keep his promise.
When he went to the well for a drink, he found Gracia there in her widow's weeds, still wearing the bottle that proclaimed her delusions. She was not as tall as Eulalia, and her face was less striking, but lovely enough. So fragile! She was delicate, she had suffered, she was not perfectly sane by the world's standards. One look at her and her sheer vulnerability made him want to clasp her in his arms and swear to defend her against anything for ever. She was much more dangerous than Eulalia.
Just one kiss? There need be no seduction, no false promises, just a moment of mutual tenderness in a world unbearably harsh.
No, not one.
"Senor, a favor?"
"If I can, senora."
She clutched the absurd bottle in both hands. "This brings questions."
How surprising! "Yes?"
She raised her chin as she did when she spoke of her mission to the dead. "My voices tell me that it will be safe with you, senor. Will you put it in your pack and carry it for me?"
It couldn't weigh much, one empty bottle. "Of course. I am honored to be trusted with it, because I know how much you value it."
She smiled again and lifted the cord over her head. He took it and hung it around his.
Fortunately he had very good reflexes. He caught the bottle before it hit the ground. Then he straightened up to face dismay that became astonishment that instantly turned to fear. She backed away, staring at him like a cornered fawn. The knots had untied themselves? No, the hob had untied them. Why should the hob object to an empty bottle?
Because it wasn't empty? He felt the hairs on his nape lift.
There was no use trying to think up some prosaic explanation. "It would seem, senora, that the wraiths do not approve of me as a guardian." He thrust the bottle at her quickly, lest it wriggle snakelike out of his hands. "Come with me and put it in Diego's pack. It will be safe with him."
"But.
..? But why? How did that happen?"
"You saw what I saw." He shrugged. "I have a sort of curse on me, senora. The wraiths may not approve of me, but I am sure that they will not find fault with my friend."
"Curse?"
"Senora, what would happen if I told the Inquisition that you hear voices and gather the ghosts of the dead?"
Her lips curled back from her teeth in terror. "You will not!"
"Of course I will not. And you will not tell them about my curse! We are companions, friends. Now we share each other's secrets." After all, they were both crazy. She collected the dead, he had visions. Lunatics should stick together.
"What is this curse?" she asked uncertainly.
"It is a long story, and painful. It is why I go on pilgrimage."
She thought he meant the tutelary at Montserrat, of course. He was thinking of Oreste's relentless pursuit. He reassured her, pointing out that no evil had come to her in the last few days while she was in his company. He took her over to the place where Hamish was still snoring, and together they wrapped the bottle securely in Hamish's blanket and put it in his pack with the books.
CHAPTER SIX
When he saw the don and his squire riding down from their knoll, Toby went around the camp and wakened the pilgrims. Pepita was already alert, combing her hair; she jumped up and followed him, all big bright eyes and serious.
"Senor..." She tried to say "Longdirk" and stumbled over it.
"Call me Toby."
"Senor Toby." She spoke very solemnly. "I asked Brother Bernat why I saw two of you and he said that that was a very bad thing to say about anyone and I must tell you I was sorry and promise you I would never tell anyone else."
He smiled down at her—a long way down, for the top of her head barely reached his ribs. "Then I thank you and accept your promise. Did he tell you why you see two of me, though?"
She pouted. "No. He said I will understand later, and perhaps you could see two of me."
"No, just one. But it's a very pretty one."
She liked that. He wanted to ask more questions, but it seemed unfair to interrogate a child. He would have a talk with her sharp-eyed guardian.