by Ken Hood
"I think she can manage as well on her own feet, senor," the friar said, eyeing the sweating pony dubiously.
Toby decided he could swing his sword now, although not as nimbly as usual, but he did not have it with him. "I shall go ahead, then, Senor Francisco, and let you all follow." He set off at a lope, and even that hardly jarred his shoulders.
As soon as he crested the rise he saw the pilgrims assembled amid some broken walls and tall cypresses a bowshot from the trail. It was not the fortress of Toledo, but it was the most defensible position in sight, and confirmation of Brother Bernat's view that one should heed what the don did, not what he said.
The mounted band Francisca had mentioned comprised at least a dozen riders and about ten wagons, coming at a leisurely pace. It might be no more than a trading party with armed guards, or it might be the Inquisition. It did not look much like a gang of highwaymen, but sunlight flashed on helmets and blades, and the lead man carried a pennant. If there was to be a fight, it would be a brief one.
Toby cranked up to a sprint and arrived in the shade of the cypress trees damp and breathless. Hamish offered him his sword and helmet and a look of welcome almost embarrassing in its intensity.
He went to where the don was standing beside his warhorse and saluted, conscious of all the others' wondering stares. "Your campeador reports for duty, senor."
The arrogant blue eyes scanned him from his head to his toes and back again. "Submit a full report in writing, Campeador." He turned away to study the newcomers' approach.
"Well?" Hamish demanded eagerly.
"Very well, thank you." Quickly, Toby outlined the friar's explanation for the visions and the danger of a roadblock at Tortosa. He spoke in Gaelic, which doubtless annoyed Senora Collel excessively.
Hamish pulled a face. "I have never read anything about spirits moving back in time!"
"Not everything can be found in books. The old man healed my injuries—have you ever read of gramarye being used for such a purpose?"
"No," Hamish admitted reluctantly. "Only tutelaries do such things. Or hexers, and he is no hexer."
The wagon train came to a halt. Suspicion worked both ways, and its escort would naturally wonder whether the few men and women they could see in the open were all of the don's party. The man bearing the pennant rode forward across the field with two others at his back, coming slowly.
"Campeador!" said the don. "You will present me." He vaulted with his lance into Atropos' saddle and rode off without a backward glance.
Toby could see no signs of anyone in friars' robes, which was a relief. He said, "Hamish?" and the two of them followed Don Ramon to the parley.
The horsemen dismounted. They were armed with muskets and swords and garbed like soldiers. Their pennant was unfamiliar to him.
No it wasn't! The pennant was vaguely familiar, the men were vaguely familiar, the whole situation screamed at him that he had been here before. He just couldn't remember when. Even—now that he looked at it—the scenery, the valley looming ahead, lay tantalizingly just outside the edges of his memory. Déjà vu!
Had it started, then?
The don reined in a dozen paces from the strangers and glanced at his aide-de-camp. "Campeador, inquire what manner of men these be and by what right they contest our progress."
Toby marched forward and saluted. "Senor, the noble Don Ramon de Nuñez y Pardo, traveling on pilgrimage to Montserrat with his train, bids me question what manner of persons you be."
The lead soldier was a large man, almost as tall as Toby himself, and not much older. He undoubtedly looked much more ferocious, being slung around with arms of all kinds and sporting both a broken nose and a jet-black beard as big as a pillow. Toby was certain he knew him from somewhere, he just couldn't quite place him. How could such a face be forgotten?
The man scowled, considered the question for a long moment, and then unexpectedly grinned. "As honest a party of merchants as ever sold the Sassenachs a herd by day and drove it back across the border by night." He spoke in Scots.
"Demons, we are lost!" Toby replied. "Toby Longdirk of Tyndrum."
"Graham Johnson of Girvan!" Hands were clasped in a grip that rapidly tightened until it would have crushed marble. Grins widened.
"One moment," Toby said when the brutal greeting had been mutually accepted as a draw. He went back to the don. "Merely merchants, senor, with mercenary guards."
Don Ramon shrugged contemptuously. "Question them about the enemy's dispositions and let them pass." He turned Atropos and rode away as if disappointed by the lack of opportunity for honorable bloodshed.
By that time Hamish was in full gabble with Master Johnson, while the latter's two Spanish subordinates looked on in silent disdain. Scottish mercenaries were prized all over Europe, so it was little surprise to find one here. But it was good fortune, because whatever Master Johnson's politics might be, he would have small sympathy for the Inquisition. Thus when Toby had described the condition of the lands south to Valencia and warned about the would-be horse thieves who had attacked the pilgrims, and had similarly been advised about the state of affairs in Tortosa and Catalonia as far as Barcelona itself, he could bring up the delicate subject without having to hedge.
The mercenary spat in disgust. "There's black robes and gray robes and white robes all over the place, and they have no liking for foreigners, but they didna' bother me nor Ian nor Gavin. There's a toll on the bridge at Tortosa. I dinna' recall seeing any friars there. I'd expect that don of yours to ride across wi' his nose in the air and not having to pay a groat, him being a noble and all."
That was good news. Indeed, all his news was good. Catalonia had suffered less than Valencia in the fighting, he said, and was already recovering, although still risky for travelers. There was food to be had in Tortosa, which was a major port, although prices were exorbitant. They ought to reach the town by the next day, and Master Johnson recommended the best inns for food, vermin-free bedding, and plump women respectively—no one establishment qualifying on all counts. And they were already more or less out of danger, he said, because the governor in Tortosa sent out patrols to keep order, and their reach extended almost this far south of the city. Gavin's troop had not seen a soul since the previous afternoon.
He must have told Toby the same news before, though, perhaps more than once. It all sounded vaguely familiar.
PART FIVE
Ambush
CHAPTER ONE
"Toby!" Hamish howled. "You have the brains of a trout! You are crazy! A gibbering, blithering maniac!" He was crimson with fury and disbelief.
"I expect so. Blame the hob."
Pepita, Francisca, and Brother Bernat had arrived. Everyone had heard the mercenary's news and was ready to move out—everyone, that is, except Senor Campbell, who seemed more inclined to nail Toby to a tree with a sword through his chest. The Hamish who had so adamantly rejected prophecy was apparently quite willing to believe in the hob's fresh starts, and in this case he felt very strongly that the fresh start should be aimed due south.
"To your post, Sergeant Jaume," Toby said patiently. "Demons! I'll promote you and double your pay. Consider yourself Captain Jaume from now on." Seldom had a joke been greeted with less amusement. Oh, well! "Laddie, we can talk about this when we've got everyone moving." He stalked over to salute the don, who was already mounted. "Ready to move out, senor."
Surprisingly, the response was not an order to have the band play, or the buglers sound, or the cavalry lead in column of four. Don Ramon just said, "About time. Stay close, I have questions." He urged old Atropos to a gentle amble. Francisca moved Petals into place alongside.
Seeing that Acting Captain Jaume had postponed his mutiny and was attending to the final prodding and urging, Toby heaved his pack onto his shoulders—ignoring spiteful stabs of agony from his remaining bruises—and took up position, striding along at the don's left stirrup. "Senor?"
"This valley we are entering disturbs me. What other routes are
available?"
"None, senor. I asked the mercenary, and he said this is the only way to Tortosa, and Tortosa is the only place we may cross the Ebro, unless we continue upriver a very long way. Behind that ridge to the right is the sea, and beyond it you end up in the swamps of the delta. We could go west of this other hill, but we come out on the river at the same place, about four leagues south of the city. That road is much harder, he said."
Receiving no response, he glanced up and was surprised to see a grin on the don's face. It disappeared instantly. Just for that moment he had looked very young and very normal, yet when he spoke he was back in his paradise of delusion:
"And what do you conclude about the enemy's plans and probable disposition, Campeador?"
His enemies were figments of delusion, but Toby's were not. One man's make-believe could be another man's reality.
"Senor, if the enemy wants to contest our progress, the bridge at Tortosa is the obvious place to do it, and the mercenary did mention soldiers there. I shall breathe more freely when we are safely across the Ebro." Or he might not be breathing at all. As he put the situation into words, he saw that Hamish was right; he was crazy not to go back while he had the chance. He should say his farewells to the don right now and head south. "But perhaps the bridge is too obvious? If I were the..." he almost said, "Inquisition," and changed it hastily, "...foe, senor, I think I would lie in wait at the north end of that mountain west of us."
"The Sierra Grossa. The one on our right is the Sierra del Montsia."
"The hidalgo has been here before?"
"Never. I have studied military history. Continue with your analysis."
"This deserted valley bothers me. I questioned the mercenary closely about it. He said they had met with no trouble since leaving Tortosa yesterday. He said that the governor there has pacified this area, but he admitted he saw no patrols and no civilians for the last few leagues, which I find odd."
"So what do procedure do you recommend, Campeador?"
"That we advance in stages, halting the main party every hour or so and sending scouts ahead."
The don twirled the points on his mustache. "Not bad for a commoner! This is traditional ambush country, and you recognized that. You have had military experience?"
Since Toby had decided to leave the don's company now—at least, he thought he had—he could ease himself out of the make-believe. A taste of reality might make the parting smoother. "A little, but I learned more while I was an apprentice in the Navarrian smuggling industry."
He expected to see shock and disapproval, but Don Ramon accepted the news calmly. "I saw the scars of the lash on your back this morning. You are a felon?"
"No, senor. The lash was part of my military experience. I told my sergeant he had the brains of a louse."
That admission was taken much more seriously, provoking a dangerous aristocratic scowl. "You should have been hanged. You are a deserter, of course. From what army?"
"From several. I give my loyalty voluntarily or not at all. It cannot be bought with force, senor."
"Yes, they should have hanged you. Troublemakers like you are best used as examples to the others. Now tell me what really happened to you while you were rounding up the horses this morning."
"I slipped and—"
"You take me for a fool?" The crazy blue eyes glared down at him. "I have seen men fresh from the strappado before." Don Ramon might be a maniac, but he had packed some rough-edged experience into his tender years.
"I am not familiar with that term, senor. I am a big man. I fall hard."
"Liar! Your arms were crippled. Now you carry a pack." The kid's curled mustache seemed to flame brighter than ever against the pallor of his anger. "Hold out your hands. Your wrists were swollen and bloody; they had fresh rope burns on them. Now they don't. What happened to you, and what did that friar do to make it right?"
Toby walked on for a while in defiant silence, keeping his neck craned to watch the horseman's face. He would not be surprised to see that broadsword drawn against him any minute, and if that happened he was as good as dead. He wondered what Doña Francisca was making of the conversation, but she was on the other side of Atropos and hence not visible.
"Senor, I can add nothing to what I have already told you. If you wish to dismiss me from your service, then Jaume and I will head south at once and seek to enlist with that company we just passed. I shall regret that, but I will go without ill feelings. Senora de Gomez will, of course, make her own choice. Any questions about Brother Bernat you must address to him."
"Demons! You'd been tortured." The don seemed to be making a strenuous effort to control himself, but the outcome still hung in the balance.
"When, senor? By whom? I fell down in clear view of the others."
The don chewed his lip. "I don't know. I should very much like to know, though. If I give you my oath not to repeat what you tell me to anyone, will you explain?"
"Does that 'anyone' include the Inquisition, senor?"
Don Ramon's glare slowly changed to a smile, an uncomfortably knowing and menacing smile. "Did you tell them what they wanted to know?"
That was not the question Toby had expected, but it was an encouraging one.
"Not as far as I can remember." That felt good; it felt very good.
"Then you are a brave man."
"If the stories I have heard about Don Ramon de Nuñez y Pardo are even partly true, senor, then so are you."
Pause. Calculation. The mood had changed now.
"Are you trying to bargain with me?"
"I require certain guarantees, senor."
"Very well, I shall include the Inquisition in my oath, but you will tell me how your companion recognized me that first day we met." The don had never commented on that miracle before. Obviously he had not forgotten it.
"That is part of the same story." Toby smiled without meaning to. Whatever had happened to his intention of heading south? "Tonight, when we camp, I shall tell you everything. I warn you, senor, that it is a very strange tale, but you come into it, and therefore I am eager to share it with you."
To Toby's astonishment, the don laughed and leaned down to offer a hand. This time he did not want it kissed. His grip was almost as brutal as Graham Johnson's.
"For courage, then, Senor Longdirk." He even managed to pronounce the outlandish name reasonably well. "Tonight."
"Tonight, senor. You have my promise."
"Sworn on the honor of a smuggler, mutineer, and deserter? In exchange I offer the sacred word of a hidalgo of Castile." Don Ramon straightened in his saddle and glanced back along the line. "The siege train is lagging, Campeador. Go and find out who is responsible and have them flogged."
Toby saluted and stepped aside. As soon as Atropos had gone by him, he wiped sweat from his forehead. Had he just put his head in a noose—or his wrists, perhaps?
Nevertheless, Baron Oreste's macabre executions were starting to make more sense. That possible future supported Toby's instinct that the lunatic don could be trusted.
Hamish would burst blood vessels when he heard of this development.
CHAPTER TWO
It was Toby's intention to drop back to the rear of the column and have his promised chat with Hamish, but every group forced him to tarry and discuss the mercenaries' news. Most of them also interrogated him closely on exactly what had happened to him that morning. He kept repeating the same story until he almost believed it himself, but none of them seemed truly convinced. Perhaps he didn't look like the sort of person who would trip over his own feet in a meadow and knock himself out. He wondered what they did make of the episode, and what they would say if some Dominican friars appeared and began asking questions about him.
Eventually he found himself trudging along beside Hamish, a few paces behind Thunderbolt. There were clouds building ahead, to the north. Was that an omen or just a sign that the weather was going to break at last?
Hamish's mood had improved. He seemed quite cheerf
ul as he said, "I still think you're crazy." He often thought that.
"You believe in my visions now?"
"I think the friar's explanation makes sense, although I see a weakness in it. If he's right, you're heading right back to the torture chamber. For spirits' sake, turn around while you still have a chance! You should get out of here like a racing camel on skates."
"I do get to Barcelona eventually, somehow. The other visions prove that. I'll try not to cut off your—"
"No, they don't!" When Hamish smirked like that he thought he was being clever. He usually was.
"They don't?"
"Listen!" He pondered for a moment, probably breaking his mental processes into small pieces that lesser minds could digest. "If the hob is jerking you back in time, then you shouldn't know anything at all about the future that won't happen, although something very similar may. Or very different. The fragments you do remember are a... never mind that for now. The only thing you can count on is the timing of the vision. That's the moment when you come back from the future and start over."
Toby heaved his pack higher—there was no comfortable position for it now. "I suppose you're right. Obviously what seems like hours or days to me lasts no time at all for anyone else. One minute you see me walking along happily whistling 'The Lass up the Glen' and the next I'm lying flat and howling. From then on I'm in reality again."
"It may only be reality temporarily, until it gets wiped out the next time," Hamish said gloomily. "You've seen two visions of Barcelona."
"Possibly two visions of one future."
"No, two separate futures. You came back twice."
Um! Good point. "All right. I got there twice, and I will have to arrive there eventually."
"No! That's what I'm trying to tell you. Those visions came before the one of the Inquisition. That means you got to Barcelona twice—at least twice, because we don't know how many times the hob had played this trick without leaving you a vision. Let's ignore that tangle. First you ended up chained in a dungeon and the hob rescued you eventually—we don't know when. The second time you were Oreste's executioner, and it pulled you back again. It was on the next try that you met the Inquisition. This is the fourth time, at least, that you've passed this way. You may never get to Barcelona now."