by Amy Maroney
“What he said makes no sense,” Arnaud said, taking up the pitchfork again. “It was the drink, I suppose.”
Gaston moved toward the door. “Anyway, he’s gone. I hope he never shows his face here again.”
44
Autumn, 1506
Oto, Aragón
Elena
Elena had only been back in Oto a month and already she was despondent. Her time in Ronzal had been all too brief. A golden moment suspended in an elixir of love and familiarity, now receding into memory.
Alejandro had developed a habit of practicing swordplay each afternoon for hours. She often only saw him now at suppertime. Pelegrín was usually ensconced in his father’s study, reading and writing letters. He brooded endlessly over some threat from the royal treasury, something to do with the Great Captain. Each time a dark mood overcame him, a knot of dread took hold of Elena’s belly. She could not shake her wariness of the Oto men.
The long, frigid days of winter loomed ahead. Elena busied herself tending to the health of the castle inhabitants and running the household much the way Marguerite once did, an iron keyring jangling at her waist. Pelegrín insisted she make Marguerite’s bedchamber her own, a kindness Elena had not anticipated. Her only joy was when Alejandro came to her there in the evenings, asking for stories. She would spool out tales of the mountains, of wild creatures, of the gods who unleashed floods and avalanches when humans angered them.
Watching his eyes sparkle in the firelight warmed her heart and made her forget her loneliness.
One night there came a sharp rap at her bedchamber door. It was Pelegrín. He stood in the doorway, grim-faced.
“A gate guard died of the sweating sickness this afternoon,” he said.
Elena stared at him, aghast. “Why was I not told? I could have done something for the lad.”
Pelegrín shook his head. “Not for the sweating sickness. There is no cure. I did not tell you because I knew you would tend to him.”
“I can take care of myself,” she bristled. “I’ve been exposed to more illnesses than you have hairs on your head.”
“You are close to Alejandro,” Pelegrín pointed out. “If you get sick, he may too.”
He came to stand beside her.
“You and Alejandro must leave,” he said quietly. “You will take three knights of your choosing, and go west with the boy. All the way to Basque country. To Xabi and your wedding. And also to Mira.”
“To Mira?” Elena repeated in disbelief.
He nodded. “Will you let Alejandro reunite with his sister?”
“You would let your brother leave?” she asked, incredulous.
“I want him to live,” Pelegrín said simply.
“Come with us,” she said, overcome by a wave of sympathy. “If you stay, you may fall ill yourself. Besides, you told me you wanted to come to my wedding, didn’t you?”
“There is nothing I want more. But I’m bound to go to Barcelona come spring, to pay tribute to the king. Now that Queen Isabella is dead, the king has turned his back on the Great Captain and all of his men.” He looked at her with resignation. “I am one of those men, as was my father. The king’s advisors whisper to him that the Great Captain gifted my father and me much treasure after the battle for Naples, treasure that rightly belongs to the crown.”
“Is that true?”
“The royals gave nothing to anyone, so the Great Captain paid us what we were due. Most of it I gave to my men. But unless I want trouble with the king, I must pay him what he imagines I owe.”
“Leave now, then,” Elena said. “The sweating sickness spreads like fire. If you go tend to your debt, you’ll save yourself at the same time.”
“The people in this castle are my responsibility.” He glanced at the fire. “If I fall ill and die, so be it. But the threat is too great to allow Alejandro to stay. If he and I both perish, our line does too. The House of Oto is extinguished forever.”
“What about Mira? She has a son now. What of him?”
“You never mentioned a son to me before,” Pelegrín said sharply, turning to face her again.
“I only just heard the news at the meeting of the mountain folk,” she retorted, defensive.
“What else do you keep from me, aunt?” His voice was low and cool, like his father’s, with a vein of anger running through it. She felt the skin on the back of her neck prickling.
“Nothing,” she insisted, returning his glare. “Anyway, what of Mira’s son? He carries the Oto line, doesn’t he?”
“No. Only sons of sons carry the line, not sons of daughters.”
“That’s a stupid rule,” she declared.
“It is how things have always been.”
“When must we leave?” she asked after a moment, giving up the fight.
Pelegrín put a hand on her shoulder. “At dawn.”
Hastily packing her things, Elena couldn’t stave off the rush of memories that assaulted her. The autumn night—as windy as this one—when she wrapped Mira in a length of wool, concealed the girl under her cloak, rode away from the castle into the night. How had it come to this? Spiriting away another of Ramón and Marguerite’s children through a mountain wilderness, in search of safety.
Now Alejandro’s fate was in her hands.
The realization descended upon her like a chain of iron, pressing her down on her knees. For a long moment she huddled motionless on the stone floor.
Then, slowly, she forced herself up. Took one last look around the bedchamber, at Marguerite’s four-poster bed, where she had coaxed Mira and Pelegrín into the world. She gazed at the tall windows, their shutters rattling in the wind, remembering that endless night, Marguerite’s terrible labor.
Finally Elena wheeled and walked out the door, knowing she would never set foot in this place again.
45
Autumn, 1506
San Juan de la Peña
Brother Arros
Brother Arros rested in a mule cart, propped against a canvas sack stuffed with wool. From his perch, he whispered instructions to a young monk. Men swirled around them loading mules with goods for the passage over the mountains. The clatter of hooves melded with the creak of leather bridles and saddles.
This was likely the last mule train that would venture over the pass before winter snows descended, clamping shut the roads until spring.
Brother Arros spied the movements of two horses approaching through the courtyard’s open gates. He gestured to his assistant, who trotted to welcome the visitors. The young monk led them to the wagon where Brother Arros lay like a grub, splayed out weakly in the sun.
“My Elena!” he croaked in astonishment. “You’ve returned to me. And you bring a young man with you.”
“I am Alejandro de Oto,” the boy said in a clear, confident voice. “Your Elena is my aunt.”
“Never get tired of saying that, do you?” Elena asked wryly.
Brother Arros laughed, but it came out as a thin cackle. His body was losing the ability to do the simplest things.
“Why are you in that cart?” Elena asked, leaping down from her horse. “You’re meant to be walking about, exercising those muscles like I told you.”
“I tried, my dear. There is nothing we can do about old age, I’m afraid. I’ve no strength left, you see. None at all.”
She took in the sight of his wizened body slumped against the canvas sack.
“You’ve been ill again.” Elena’s accusing tone made the words sound harsh. But she picked up one of his hands and held it gently in hers.
He sighed. “A fever struck me in the spring. I never fully recovered, I’m afraid.”
Alejandro dismounted from his horse and approached, resting his chin on the wooden frame of the cart. His brown eyes were much like Elena’s, Brother Arros saw. Wide and warm.
“My b
rother Pelegrín made us leave Castle Oto,” the boy said. “Because of the sweating sickness.”
“Is that so?” Brother Arros tried to take a deep breath and failed utterly. His lungs had not functioned at full capacity for some time. “Your safety is what he cares about most. He told me that once in a letter.”
“Pelegrín wrote you?” Alejandro stood up a little straighter. “When?”
“When he was in the Kingdom of Naples. He told me about the Great Captain, about his father’s wound, about...” Brother Arros glanced at Elena. “So many things, I must confess I’ve forgotten most of the details.” He cleared his throat and tried to speak a little louder, to no avail. “Do you need shelter? You may stay here as long as you like.”
“We can only stay a night or two,” Elena said, “for we must reach Basque country before winter strikes.”
“Ah yes, your shepherd, what is his name...?”
“Xabi,” Alejandro supplied. “Elena is to wed him. But he might not want to marry her anymore.”
“Alejandro!” Elena glared at the boy.
“You told me that,” he defended himself.
She sighed. “I suppose I did.”
Brother Arros’s shoulders shook with laughter. “The monks will attend to your horses. Go to the guesthouse and clean up. I shall see you at supper.”
That evening, they sat at the table in the guesthouse, warmed by a fire loaded with heavy oak logs. Alejandro ate his fill of tasteless porridge, hard bread, and dry cheese, then nodded off to sleep, head cradled in his arms on the table. There were no other travelers lodging at the monastery, and they had the room to themselves.
Brother Arros regarded Elena’s familiar face with satisfaction. In the shifting firelight, she looked like the girl he remembered. The shadows hid the silver in her hair.
He reached for her hand across the table. “This is the last time you’ll see me, my dear.”
She did not argue. He knew it was obvious his health was failing. He was mortal like all men, after all.
They spoke of Ronzal and the summer meeting of the mountain folk, of Arnaud and Mira and the new baby, Tristan. Elena described her uneasy tenure living in Castle Oto and her happiness at escaping its walls. She told him of her hope that Xabi would welcome her back to his hearth and his heart despite their long separation. Only when she broached the topic of Pelegrín did she falter.
“I worry that he will fall sick himself, but he would not leave the castle. He gave us three of his best knights for protection.”
“Where are they?” Brother Arros asked.
“Camping, for they had no desire to eat monastery food. No offense to the brothers.”
Brother Arros managed a crooked smile. “We’re not known for our cooking. Though none starve here.” He grew silent, contemplating her. “There is nothing you can do to help Pelegrín. I shall pray for him. And you should, too.”
Elena sniffed. “I don’t pray for men the way you do.”
“You should, for if Castle Oto falls, so does the house of Oto.”
“Perhaps that’s not such a bad thing,” she said, stealing a glance at the sleeping boy beside her.
“But you are one of them now,” he reminded her.
She shook her head. “I was never one of them. Maria raised me. I’m a woman of the mountains, no more than that.”
He squeezed her hand and looked into her eyes with all the tenderness he possessed. “You are so much more than that, Elena. You are the sun and the stars to many, myself included. Mark my words, when you return to Basque country Xabi will want to have the wedding that very day, the moment he claps eyes upon you. He is a lucky man, and he knows it.”
She dipped her head in thanks. “I hope what you say is true.”
“Bayonne is not so far from Basque country. Will you journey there one day, to visit Mira and meet her son?”
“Pelegrín asked us to go there, so that Alejandro and Mira can meet.” She hesitated, knotting her hands together. “Pelegrín himself wanted to come west with us. But now he’s bound to travel east come spring, to pay tribute to the king.” She sighed. “It’s better this way, I suppose. Arnaud is still wary of the man, and I imagine Mira is terrified of him.”
“And you?” Brother Arros studied Elena’s face.
“Pelegrín reminds me of his father, but in his heart he’s nothing like the man,” she said. “The old ways died with Ramón, that is what Pelegrín vows. And I believe him. He truly wants to reconcile with Mira.”
“There is too much sorrow in that family’s past,” Brother Arros said. “But now things will be different. Better.”
“That’s what I love about you, Brother Arros,” Elena replied. “Always hopeful.”
“I can’t live any other way,” he admitted.
The fire was dying. Elena roused Alejandro.
Together they helped Brother Arros shuffle to bed.
46
Autumn, 1506
Béarn
Arnaud
Arnaud looked around in satisfaction. He had paid a farmer to use this stubble field for the night. The oxcart and mule carts formed a semi-circle. Inside the curving shelter of the carts, the men built a fire and set about making supper. They were ten in number now, with the addition of the Belarac villagers who were transporting wool fabric to Lord de Vernier in Toulouse. Though it had rained steadily all day, the sky was clear and a few stars glowed faintly in the east. Nearby a stream whispered in the gathering dusk.
In the kettle simmered a stew of mutton and wild onions. One of the men produced a little pouch of sea salt.
“The Béarnaise don’t know how to eat well,” he said, stirring a few pinches of salt into the stew with a long wooden spoon. “Drown it in butter and cream, that’s what they do to their meat.”
“There’s something to be said for butter and cream,” another man observed, squatting down next to the fire.
“Sure, in a cream tart,” retorted the first man. “That’s where it belongs. Not slathered over good meat.”
Arnaud smiled, striding away from the argument as it gained momentum, checking on the contents of each cart in turn. The canvas coverings were all tied down firmly, he noted. The oxen and mules were hobbled nearby, their noses buried in buckets of grain. He sent two of the men to the stream to fetch water for washing, then returned to the fire again. A leather gourd of wine was thrust his way.
“To your health,” Arnaud said in thanks, taking a swig.
“To your health,” the men chorused, passing the gourd among them.
Overhead the dark shroud of night descended.
Arnaud awoke with a jolt and vaulted to his feet, reaching for his dagger. Several of the mules shifted restlessly. The fire was reduced to a jumble of glowing embers.
“Wake up!” he commanded in a hoarse whisper, shaking the men around him. “Something comes this way.”
The men roused themselves, blearily reaching for their weapons. Out of the darkness a flaming arrow traced a fiery path above their heads, landing somewhere in the field beyond the carts.
“What’s this?” cried one of the men. “Bandits?”
They were all quiet for a moment, listening to the rush of water in the stream.
Arnaud turned in a slow circle, his heart thudding crazily.
A tiny flame licked upward from one of the canvas-covered loads.
“The oak. They want to burn our goods!” Arnaud shouted.
Two men dashed for the spot where earlier several buckets of water had been set out. Fumbling in the dark, they lugged them to the cart, then doused the flames.
Across the field a figure stood near a massive oak tree, lit by the glow of a burning resin-tipped arrow nocked in his bow.
“By the sun and stars,” Arnaud muttered, reaching for his bow. He took aim at the man and let his arrow fly.
A grunt of pain told him he had found his mark.
There was a shout and another flaming arrow bore down on them, missing a Ronzal villager by an arm’s length.
“Take shelter!” Arnaud urged the men.
They all scrambled under the cart beds.
“What of the mules?” objected someone. “They’ll surely be hit. We can’t afford to lose any of them.”
“I’ll undo their hobbles,” Arnaud said. “They’ll make for the stream.”
“Not alone, you won’t,” said another man.
Together they crept to the animals and loosened their bonds, then pointed them in the direction of the stream and slapped their flanks.
Arnaud’s eyes were fully adjusted to the darkness now. He could just make out two men huddled near the oak tree across the field. He nudged his companion.
“Look over there,” he said. “At my signal, we’ll both shoot.”
Silently they drew and nocked their arrows.
“Now!” hissed Arnaud.
They let the arrows loose.
A howl of pain rose up, reverberating through the air.
“Stay here and be ready to shoot again,” Arnaud told the other man.
He pulled a short sword from its sheath and cautiously crept toward the oak tree.
They must have a fire going to light their arrows, he reasoned, moving in a wide circle around the oak. A deep well was dug in the earth twenty paces from the tree. In it burned a small fire. A burly man leaned over the pit, lighting a resin-tipped arrow.
Arnaud rushed forward and flicked the arrow out of the man’s hands with his sword. The man swore and jumped back, the firelight illuminating his face.
“I know you,” Arnaud said in surprise. “You work for Amadina Sacazar.”
The man fumbled for his sword and lunged at Arnaud.
Arnaud feinted to the side and stabbed him in the shoulder. The man dropped his blade and fell heavily to the ground.