“Let me put my boot to a few doors, Majesty,” he said, drawing his sword as they approached a little village nestling in a valley west of Seville, “a few threats should be enough to frighten these clods into handing over what we need.”
Enrique restrained him. “These people are my subjects, or will be,” he said, “we must not harm or intimidate them. My brother would burn the thatch over their heads and steal the money from their pockets, which is why I must behave differently.”
Carillo looked baffled, but bowed to his master’s judgment. Eleanor had overheard, and her estimation of Enrique increased. She had already noted his physical similarity to Pedro, both being tall and muscular and fair-haired, but there the similarities seemed to end. Enrique acted with humility where his half-brother was arrogant, gently where Pedro was cruel, and expressed genuine-sounding care for the prosperity and well-being of Castile.
Little did she realize the pretender’s true character. In truth he was as faithless and immoral as Pedro, only more inclined to hide behind a façade of charm and courtesy.
Doña Juana was just as blind to her husband’s darker side, and talked of little else besides his virtues and ambitions. Eleanor soon found her tedious. Women, in her view, should not be so wholly absorbed by their husbands.
The fugitives continued to head north. Fortunately, none of the people they encountered on the way suspected that the dirty, ragged, bearded figure of Enrique was anything other than he claimed to be, an impoverished Rico Hombre who had lost his lands and was on his way to France to enlist with the Great Companies. His followers, he explained, were those few loyal servants and retainers that had not abandoned him.
“In that sense,” he said bitterly as they sat huddled around a flickering campfire one night, “I am telling the truth.”
After several weeks of this futile wandering, Enrique made the decision to leave Castile and cross into the Kingdom of Leon, for no other reason than it was safer. He led his increasingly tired and demoralised followers over the border and into the Cantabrian Mountains, where he found a haven in a crumbling, abandoned castle hidden among the snow-capped peaks overlooking the border of Leon and Galicia. In this desolate ruin he set up his tiny court, apparently content to sit and wait for better days. All the spirit had gone out of him, and his wife’s defiant talk of living as outlaws in the forests fell on fallow ground.
During the journey north Eleanor had talked much with her brother. He had succeeded in persuading her of the evil of King Pedro, and the absolute necessity of deposing him. This was no difficult task, since she knew from her own experience what kind of a man Pedro was.
“You have been a witness to his arrogance and cruelty,” Charles said to her one night, shortly after their arrival at Enrique’s tumbledown palace, “imagine the fate of Castile, with such a monster for a king. He will plunder the land, break the law as he pleases, and alienate everyone around him, until war is inevitable. It is inevitable anyway. The question is - how long will the people wait before rising against him?”
“He is just sixteen,” Eleanor pointed out, “and as yet does not hold all the reins of power in his hands. I have met the Chancellor, Don Albuquerque. A subtle and devious man. He could keep Pedro on the right path for a few years, at least until the King comes of age.”
Mention of Albuquerque caused Charles to grimace in disgust. “He is also our enemy, and another reason for striking at Pedro. If Albuquerque is allowed ten years of peace to build up his power he will be unassailable. We must strike at them as soon as possible.”
“How? Your would-be king has no army, no money, and no support. What about your master, Don Fadrique? He is the head of the Order of Santiago. Could he not lend his knights to fight for his brother Enrique?”
Charles shook his head. “He sent me to Algeciras to offer his verbal support to Enrique, but will do no more than that. His position as head of the Order is too delicate.”
He looked thoughtfully at his sister. “You told us that Albuquerque employed you as a spy. Did you have any liking or aptitude for the work? Speak honestly.”
“I found it an adventure. Our father tried to force me into the life of a dutiful, wedded wife, but it was not for me. You should have met my potential mother-in-law. An arrogant, overbearing bitch, puffed up with pride and spite.”
“She sounds oddly familiar,” Charles said dryly, “though father should have realised you could not be made to conform. You should have been born a boy. However, we must make the best of what you are.”
“My talent lies in spying, Charles. Use it.”
Her brother looked uncomfortable. “I have no doubt that Don Enrique will do just that. And soon.”
Some weeks later, in the heart of a lonely, sun-baked valley near the border of Leon and Castile, a wagon lay overturned on its side. The horses had bolted free from their traces and fled, but the butchered corpses of the occupants lay scattered about, four men and one woman. The men had died sword in hand, while the woman had been a nun of San Clemente and died on her knees, murmuring prayers and holding a crucifix to her breast. Whether fighting or praying, they had all gone the same way.
Lawlessness had consumed Castile. King Pedro had fallen dangerously ill, and the news of his impending death had spread across the kingdom. Almost overnight, factions sprang up among the courtiers and Rico Hombres. Instead of seeing to the peace and good order of the realm, Don Albuquerque was raising troops to fight the rival contenders to the throne that had suddenly sprang up like mushrooms after rain, and the storm-clouds of civil war gathered over the land. Bands of robbers and marauders took advantage of the unsettled times to plunder and destroy at will.
One such band had ambushed the wagon. Just as they were wiping the blood from their swords, a war-horn sounded and another parcel of thieves appeared on the ridge behind them. The newcomers charged, and a fierce battle erupted on the valley floor.
From her vantage point on a rocky spur overlooking the valley to the north, Eleanor stood by her horse and watched the carnage.
She was no longer recognizable as the daughter of a Castilian gentleman. Her black hair was cropped shorter than ever, and she wore the garb of a common soldier. A falchion and her poniard, which had still not tasted blood, hung from her hip.
Many girls of her age would have recoiled from the sight of so much violent death. She watched dispassionately, wondering how many of the robbers would survive the fight.
At last the swirling dust settled, the screams and clanging blades subsided, and she could count the cost. Twenty men had fought, and fourteen lay dead. Of the remainder, two had fled, and four lay feebly moaning for aid, their bodies hacked and slashed to pieces. The stench of blood and excrement and spilled guts rose from the valley.
None of the survivors were in any condition to threaten Eleanor. She mounted her horse and rode down the slope, picking her way carefully across the uneven and rocky ground. She halted next to the first corpse and dismounted to strip it of anything valuable.
Any qualms she might have felt at corpse-robbing had been extinguished by several weeks of living rough in the mountains, and it was with a methodical, businesslike air that she took the dead man’s dagger, his belt, the cheap silver rings from his fingers, and his purse.
She moved through the valley, falchion in hand, plundering every bleeding body she passed. One of her victims had enough life left in him to clutch feebly at her wrist, but she stilled his protests with a quick stab to the throat. Schooled by Don Enrique and her brother Charles, who like most knights of those times were skilled in brigandage and murder, Eleanor had become a swift and merciless killer.
Only the nun gave her pause. Some things were inviolably sacred, and Eleanor confined herself to making the sign of the cross over the woman’s blood-soaked body. Suddenly consumed by disgust, she decided to get away from the valley and its smell of death.
“Wolves,” a voice hissed as she turned away. Eleanor looked back to see the nun’s eyes gazing up
at her. The dying woman’s bruised and bloody lips worked as she struggled for breath.
“Wolves, tearing at the carcass of Castile. God curse you.”
Eleanor looked around at the carnage, the scattered bodies of the dead and dying. “It seems I am a lone wolf, sister,” she murmured, “God keep you.”
She walked away, leaving the crows to pick over the fallen.
The money Eleanor had stolen from the dead paid for a few loaves and a flask of wine from a hilltop village, a poor and isolated place where the fearful peasants asked no questions of the surly, well-armed routier. From there she followed a winding route through high mountain passes and rocky trails, until she reached Enrique’s headquarters.
She arrived to find her brother on the ground floor of the crumbling, wind-blown shell of the tower, desperately trying to coax flames from a pile of kindling inside a ring of stones. Don Enrique was perched on the window seat that overlooked a dizzying view of a ravine. It was late afternoon, and he was peering intently at a somewhat tattered bit of parchment.
Charles sprang up and grinned at her through his scrubby beard. “Here is the Raven with our supper,” he said cheerfully. He was a scarecrow figure, half-starved and unshaven and clad in rough woollens, having buried his mail and Templar robes in a little wood in Castile.
The Raven. Charles had started to call her by that old familiar nickname, inspired by her habit of climbing into the tops of trees as a girl. Enrique had declared it suited her perfectly, and so the name stuck. Eleanor raised no objection, for it lent her an air of mystery that might prove useful in the future.
“One of my little birds sent this letter,” announced Don Enrique, tapping the parchment with his thumb, “informing me that the city of Burgos has renounced its loyalty to King Pedro and declared Don Juan Núñez, lord of Biscay, the rightful King of Castile.”
Charles looked solemn at the news. “I am sorry to hear it, Majesty,” he said. “Núñez is an upstart and a traitor. He betrayed old King Alfonso, of blessed memory, and now he has betrayed his son.”
“So he has,” nodded Enrique, “as has the Infante of Aragon, who has also declared himself the rightful King of Castile, along with a host of lesser pretenders. What a multiplicity of kings! Castile will be torn to pieces by these squabbling vultures.”
“While the rightful monarch languishes here in exile,” said Carillo, stepping through the doorway, a brace of scrawny rabbits slung over his shoulder. Eleanor flushed at the sight of the young knight, no less handsome in leather jerkin and breeches than plate and mail.
“Monarch of nothing,” Enrique said bitterly. “Monarch of wind and rocks. How my brothers would laugh to see me!”
He brooded for a while, staring out of the arrow-slit window, while the others stood in awkward silence, waiting for the king’s command. Eleanor had a suspicion that she was more useful to Enrique than any of the men present, and so it proved.
“You,” he said, pointing at her. “You will go to Burgos, and see what is happening there.”
“You have spies in the city already, Majesty,” Charles pointed out, giving his sister a worried look.
“I have learned to trust the Raven more than any other of my little birds,” said Enrique, “I confess I had my doubts about her, but she is loyal, brave and resourceful.”
And expendable, thought Eleanor, but dared not say so. She didn’t relish the prospect of travelling alone to a strange city and spying on Enrique’s enemies, but at least it was an opportunity to escape these lonely mountains. And to escape Carillo, whom she still desired with an implacable intensity. The fact he was completely oblivious to her desire only made it worse.
“I will go to Burgos, Majesty,” she said, bowing gracefully.
8.
Eleanor adopted a new guise to enter the city. She had grown used to being in the company of men, and behaving like a man, and reckoned it would be amusing to play the part of a man for a while. More amusing, at any rate, than resuming the joyless guise of a Carmelite nun.
Her brother helped her with this new role, and suggested that she become Cesario, a poor jinete or light cavalryman from the foothills of the Cantabrian Mountains, whose lord had been murdered by bandits.
“Cesario is travelling to Burgos to seek honest employment,” said Charles, who had entered into the spirit of the deception, “his only trade is soldiering. Without employment he will be reduced to banditry, like so many of his fellows.”
He walked around his sister, closely inspecting her costume. She wore the same leather jerkin, boots and breeches that she had become accustomed to wearing, and Charles had cut her hair even shorter, to make her appear less feminine. He had no need to worry on that score, for Eleanor had rarely felt or looked less like a woman in her life.
“And what will Cesario do, once he reaches the city?” he demanded.
“Offer his services to the cabelleros villanos, and follow where they lead,” she replied promptly, “until it is time to flee.”
The cabelleros villanos or ‘peasant knights’ of Burgos were common men of the city who enjoyed relief from taxes in return for providing mounted soldiers for the king during time of war. Whom they would fight for now Castile was in a state of flux was uncertain, though Enrique reckoned they would most likely declare for Núñez. They had a controlling influence over the consejo or urban commune of Burgos, and it was Eleanor’s task to discover if the people of the city wanted Núñez as king, or if that was merely the desire of the burghers.
Of the identities and activities of the other ‘little birds’ Don Enrique had spying on his behalf in Burgos, he told her nothing: better, he explained, that his agents work in ignorance of each other, for that way there was less chance of betrayal.
“You make a fine horse-soldier, in appearance at least,” said Charles, “though God knows what father would say. He must be entirely ignorant of our current predicament. I have not written to him for months.”
“He will know by now that I broke my engagement with Don Felipe, and fled from Toledo,” said Eleanor, “but you should write to the poor old man. Tell him sweet lies of our progress, and that we are living high at Don Enrique’s expense in a fine palace in the mountains.”
She laughed at the mortified expression on her brother’s face. “Let me write the letter, though God knows who will carry it, if telling lies does not accord with your knightly honour.”
Charles frowned. “Save your deceit for our enemies,” he said, and for the first time since their reunion he sounded angry, “if you start lying to our father, where does it stop? Would you lie to God?”
Rather than offend him, for Charles was a devout man who held family and God close to his heart, Eleanor declined the argument and turned the conversation back to her appearance. Even so, she noticed her brother looking at her with suspicion in his eyes, and knew that she had sewn a seed of doubt in his mind.
She rode west from the mountains with Enrique’s blessing, a steel cap on her head, a targe or little round shield strapped to her arm, and a light spear slung across her back. These were to complete her disguise as Cesario, the unfortunate jinete who had lost his employer to bandits.
Burgos, the ancient capital of Castile, was located on the River Arlanzón in northern Spain, a few days’ ride west. Eleanor journeyed through a landscape of forested hills and mountains that slowly broadened out into rolling plains, dotted with villages and sprawling castles.
She passed a great many travellers on the dusty roads - farmers driving herds of goats, clergymen perched on ambling mules, pilgrims and tradesmen, the occasional troop of mounted men-at-arms, even a knight or two followed by their squires – but few spared her a second glance. There were a great many jinetes and Rico Hombres wandering the roads, especially in these uncertain times, and one more was of little interest. Eleanor took great pleasure in her disguise, and imagined that she had succeeded in fooling the world.
When she was but a few miles from Burgos, and the mighty towers
of the cathedral were visible on the horizon, she heard wild barking and the blowing of hunting horns, and a horde of wolfhounds burst from the woods flanking the road. They were chasing a wild boar that skittered across the road, directly in front of Eleanor’s horse, and caused her beast to shy.
The boar and the hounds vanished into the trees on the opposite side of the road as she struggled to control her rearing horse. A party of huntsmen mounted on coursers galloped out of the woods after them. Three rode on after their quarry, but the fourth saw Eleanor and reined in. More riders appeared behind him, but halted when he raised his hand.
“Mind where you’re going, fellow,” he said mildly, looking Eleanor up and down, “you almost rode over our game.”
The huntsman was in vigorous middle age, his face and grey-streaked beard slick with sweat from the exertion of the hunt, and cut a fine figure in his green jacket, thick leather leggings and knee-high boots. He wore a longsword and dagger at his hip, and a hunting horn hung from a thick leather baldric over his shoulder. His noble status was obvious by his arrogant bearing and the servile respect accorded to him by the other men.
Eleanor tried to imagine how a young gallant like Cesario might respond, and overplayed it. “Your game almost crippled my horse, fellow,” she retorted, pitching her voice as low as possible, “so mind where you are hunting!”
The words rang embarrassingly hollow, and the nobleman looked at her with amusement dancing in his soft blue eyes. His followers grinned at her insolence, though she noticed one or two placing tentative hands on their swords.
“Here’s a brave one,” he said, scratching his beard, “what are you doing on the road alone?”
“I am on my way to Burgos, to offer my sword to the cabelleros villanos,” she replied.
“Are you indeed? And to whom do you profess loyalty?”
“To the King.”
He grinned, exposing broken but otherwise well-kept teeth. “A clever answer, boy, but not good enough. Which King? There are so many in Castile at present.”
The Half-Hanged Man Page 14