The Promise Read online

  The Promise

  The Miramonde Series, A Prequel Novella

  Amy Maroney

  Copyright © 2017 by Amy Maroney

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real places, or real people are used fictitiously. Other characters, places, names, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover design by Design for Writers.

  Map by Tracy Porter.

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-9975213-2-0

  Published by Artelan Press

  Portland, Oregon

  https://www.amymaroney.com/

  Created with Vellum

  For Julie

  “Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one’s courage.”

  —Anaïs Nin

  Contents

  Preface

  Map

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  The Girl from Oto

  Prologue

  Book I

  Chapter 1

  The Miramonde Series

  About the Author

  Preface

  The Promise tells the story of Elena de Arazas, a mountain healer and midwife who is one of the central characters in The Miramonde Series. Set in the late 1400s just before The Girl from Oto (Book 1 in the series) opens, this prequel novella follows Elena through a year of adventures in the wild Pyrenees.

  Haunted by a childhood tragedy, Elena navigates the world like a bird in flight. An unexpected romance shatters her solitary existence, giving her new hope. But when her dearest friend makes an audacious request, Elena faces an agonizing choice. Will she allow herself to be drawn back into the web of violence she’s spent a lifetime trying to escape?

  To learn more about The Miramonde Series, visit www.amymaroney.com.

  1

  Autumn, 1483

  White flakes swirled in the air like tiny stars. The beeches and oaks in these woods were still crowned with gold, but snow had sifted through the trees all morning, bringing with it the unmistakable scent of winter.

  Scuffing along faint animal tracks that led to the meadow, Elena cast a glance upward and drew her cloak tight around her shoulders. It’s just a warning from the gods, she told herself. A flurry and nothing more.

  A swarm of golden leaves took flight from a beech’s highest branches, shaken loose by a gust of wind. They cascaded down in long, looping arcs, littering the forest floor with points of yellow light, a silent army of messengers signaling the change of seasons.

  Elena plucked a falling leaf as it sailed by and crumpled it in her palm, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in her toes. She had reluctantly jammed her feet into boots at daybreak. Barefoot, she could slip through the world undetected. Not so with boots. As if to prove the point, a dry branch snapped under her heel. In the hushed wintry gloom, it sounded as loud as the crack of a whip.

  She halted under an oak on the edge of the meadow, glancing around warily, one hand on her bow.

  Then she set off again, irritated at herself. This time of year, brown bears were still foraging in the high country, growing fat on tubers and rodents. And wolves were lolling in their dens, sated from summer hunts. The fact was, no wild thing had ever threatened her in this valley. There was nothing to fear.

  She strode across the meadow, eyes aching from the harsh brightness of the snow that drifted over the grass. Mist rose from the hot springs that bubbled near the brook, suffusing the sharp cold air with a familiar softness. The usual frantic activity of songbirds and damselflies was strangely absent. It was as if the shock of snow had sent every living thing into hiding.

  Her refuge was close now, hidden in a grove of black pines. Elena’s strides lengthened. The exhaustion that had haunted her steps all day vanished, replaced by a heady buzz of anticipation.

  And then she saw it. A thin plume of smoke curling up from the roof of the cabin.

  Someone was inside.

  She stood motionless a moment. Then she moved quickly into the woods, circled around behind the cabin, and slipped into the cover of a crooked pine whose lower branches dipped nearly to the ground. Pulling her dagger from its ragged sheath, she weighed the blade in her palm, listening. The snow had muted the usual forest sounds—the rustle of leaves, the creak of wood. Even the crows that usually rasped in these trees had gone silent.

  “Well?" A man's voice rang out. "Are you going to show yourself?"

  She stayed quiet, gripping the dagger’s handle. Her heart pounded furiously against her ribs.

  "I know you’re there." He spoke the mountain dialect, but his words were flavored with some foreign tongue. "You’re welcome to share this lodging with me."

  At that, Elena could not contain herself.

  “I’m welcome to share my own cabin with a stranger?" she shouted. "How hospitable."

  A tall, rangy man appeared around the corner of the stone walls. He wore a black wool vest over a white blouse. Dark wool leggings spilled over the tops of his boots. His hair was drawn back in the manner of the Ronzal shepherds, but he wore his beard shorter than they did.

  "Your cabin?” He took a few steps forward, peering into the woods. “The shepherds of Ronzal told me I was free to use it.”

  “Did they? Who do you know from Ronzal?"

  Elena backed into the shadow of the crooked pine. A crow chose that moment to rouse itself, scolding her from a high branch. She sighed in exasperation, flinging it a murderous glare.

  “I know Jorge de Luz. And others.” The man moved closer still, his boots crunching the dry snow.

  "Who are you, then?"

  "Xabi. Xabi the Basque."

  The fear in her chest eased. Concealing the dagger behind her skirts, she walked into the light.

  "The shepherds and the monks speak of you, Xabi the Basque.”

  He folded his arms, eyeing her. “What do they say?”

  “They say you’re a man of honor.”

  “I’m relieved to hear it. But I’m still waiting for your name."

  "Elena."

  "Elena...?"

  “I’ve no other name, but if you require one, I suppose you can call me Elena of Arazas.”

  "Well, Elena of Arazas, no one told me this cabin belongs to you."

  He was dark, darker than her, and so lean that his cheekbones jutted out at stark angles. His brown eyes were solemn under thick black brows.

  ”I built it,” she said. "With the help of friends. It’s as fine a place as any to spend a winter."

  "You winter here?" He looked skeptical.

  "Why not? This valley’s low enough to be clear of the worst snows, and well hidden away."

  "What do you eat?"

  "Your food, tonight,” she snapped. “As you’ve made yourself at home.”

  He raised an eyebrow. "I have a stew on the fire. You’re welcome to share it.”

  She regarded him in stony silence.

  "You can shea
the your blade,” he said. “I know the rules of hospitality."

  The crow screeched once more and vaulted from the tree. They watched it wing away over the meadow, its black feathers stark against the falling snow.

  Elena’s fatigue welled up again. Her knees felt loose and a dull pain pulsed behind her eyes.

  “Fine,” she said. “Let’s eat.”

  She followed Xabi to the cabin, the hilt of her dagger hard against her palm.

  2

  Autumn, 1483

  The cabin was tiny, made of stones that Elena had collected over a period of years. Jorge de Luz and other Ronzal villagers had helped her fit the stones together, frame out the doorway, and build a roof. The oak door was trimmed with iron nails and hardware that were gifts from Brother Arros. He often gave her small items in exchange for the herbs, honey, and healing plants she brought to the monastery.

  Hanging from an iron chain above the fire was a kettle filled with stew. Elena smelled garlic and meat, mixed with another pungent odor she could not identify. She was suddenly aware that she had not eaten all day.

  A dog lay under the wooden bed frame built into one wall, watching her. His golden bulk barely fit in the space. Around his neck was a spiked iron collar.

  Xabi pulled the one stool in the room closer to the fire. “Please, sit.”

  She unclasped her cloak, sheathed her dagger, and sank down on the stool. Xabi busied himself scooping stew into two wooden bowls. He handed her one and squatted down opposite her. She spooned up a tentative bite. The stew had a strange flavor she wasn’t sure she liked, but hunger drove her to take another taste. Then a feeling of tingling heat took hold of the inside of her mouth.

  “What’s in this?” she asked, eyes narrowed.

  “Basque cooking is spicy. We like our peppers.” He pulled a leather sack off a hook on the wall and uncorked it. “Wine cools the throat.”

  Elena took the sack and drank deeply.

  “Your throat, maybe.” She drank again.

  He slid another log on the fire and poked the embers with a stick.

  “Seems a bit isolated for a winter lodging,” he said. “Game must be scarce.”

  “That’s why I come here in autumn. When I’m not hunting, I’m digging for tubers and searching for mushrooms. There’s a smokehouse at the other end of the meadow, and a cache made of stone.”

  He looked at her. “This snow must worry you, then. Your gathering season grows short.”

  Elena shrugged. “I never worry about the weather,” she lied. “What the skies bring is up to the gods. There are other places for me to spend a winter, if it comes to that.”

  Xabi set down his bowl and stretched his long legs out. Decorative toolwork ran along the seams of his leather boots.

  “Those designs,” Elena said, pointing at his boots with her spoon. “I’ve not seen their equal.”

  “A shepherd must have a few hobbies to pass the time.”

  “By all accounts, you’re a shepherd. But where’s your flock?” She peered under the bed again. “Hiding under there with your dog?”

  He laughed. “I work by contract.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “I’ve no sheep of my own. I follow the flocks, find work where I can. Lately I’ve found work in Jaca come springtime. If I must, I overwinter with a flock in the lowlands, but I prefer to return to the mountains.”

  “Why do you not go back to Basque country, to your people?”

  “My sister inherited the household and the rest of us had to find our own way. I’ll go back one day. For now, it’s too far to travel there every year.”

  “You wander, then? Like me.”

  He shrugged. “I travel to where the work is. I’d not call that wandering.”

  “I also travel to where the work is.”

  “And what work is that?”

  “Healing the ill, helping babies into this world. And hunting everything in the forest that heals. I harvest plants in the spring, bring them to Brother Arros at the monastery. Sometimes I stay for a while and help in his infirmary.”

  Xabi nodded. “Johan Arros is a good man.”

  “How long have you known him?”

  He stirred the embers again. When his face was in repose his eyebrows formed two slightly uphill lines, like the angles of a low-pitched roof. It made him look sad, she thought.

  “Two summers ago I visited San Juan de la Peña and contracted with the monks to take a flock to the high pastures for summer,” he said. “Just before I left, a pilgrim on the route of Camino de Santiago came to the monastery with a terrible injury. He’d been attacked by a bear. Face ripped to shreds, skin hanging off like strips of parchment. Brother Arros had seen me sew up the skin of injured sheep. He figured I might as well try sewing up that pilgrim. I used an iron needle and flax thread. The fellow wasn’t much to look at, afterward, but he survived.”

  She took that in, watching the firelight throw shadows on his face. She had heard the story before. Last spring, Brother Arros had described to her the terrible wounds of a pilgrim who had incited the wrath of a bear—and the talents of a Basque called Xabi, who wielded his shepherd’s tools to stitch up the man’s face.

  The wariness that had gripped her all evening drained away. In its place came a sudden tug of desire.

  Elena stood and unrolled the furs that lay at one end of the bed, spreading them in a single layer over the planks.

  “I’ll sleep here, on the other side of the fire,” Xabi said, watching her steadily.

  Elena held his gaze and pulled her long, dark hair loose from its braid. Then, slowly, she unspooled the length of blue wool wrapped around her waist. “Join me if you wish. We might as well find out tonight if we can stand one another. In the morning, we’ll decide whether you’ll stay or go.”

  3

  Autumn, 1483

  Clumps of melting snow fell from the branches of the tall pines onto the cabin’s roof, jolting Elena awake. Bright sunlight seeped in around the door frame, making a rectangle on the stone floor. Within a few hours the filmy layer of snow that blanketed the meadow would disappear. Yesterday's storm had been only a taste of winter after all, a warning sent from the gods.

  Elena slid out from under the weight of Xabi’s arm. In silence she dressed, slipped her quiver and bow over her shoulder, and pushed open the door. The dog pressed through behind her. She strode to the meadow, watching as the dog trotted ahead to the brook and drank, the sun glinting off his thick coat. A haze of steam rose from the warm pools along the banks and a pair of damselflies raced low over the water. She smiled when she heard the throaty trill of a snow finch. All was well again—the world was coming back to life.

  It was a good day to hunt. Forest creatures would scavenge madly, spurred by the strange snowfall into stuffing their winter caches full of food. She threaded her way through the trees to her own cache, tucked into a northern-facing slope. The snow here had not melted at all. It might even last until winter's grip descended on the landscape for good.

  The boulder in front of the cache’s low door took a few moments to dislodge. When she finally poked her head inside, she was relieved to see no sign of disturbance from rodents or other animals. The stone walls were solid, the floor a heavy slab of granite.

  There was the crunch of footsteps on the snow behind her.

  "The dormice haven’t discovered this place? Did you cast some magic spell upon it?"

  She stood and turned to face Xabi. Wrapped in his heavy wool cloak, he looked like a solidly-built man. But underneath those layers was a body as sinewy as her own.

  "The aid of magic would be most welcome, but it’s never been of use to me. No, the only way in or out of the cache is through this opening. A mouse, no matter how strong, cannot budge a door hewn of stone."

  She began to muscle the boulder back into place. In two steps he was at her side. Together they slid the boulder across the opening.

  "Let’s hunt," she said. "The first hour after sunrise i
s a lucky time for me."

  "If it’s as lucky as the first hour after sundown proved for me last night, we’ll have a bear to skin by mid-morning."

  A smile lit up Elena’s face, and she let her eyes rest on his for a moment. Then she turned and began striding up the steep slope, heading north.

  * * *

  They returned from hunting with two rabbits, which Elena immediately skinned and butchered. Xabi began splitting wood for a fire.

  Elena went to the meadow, the dog at her heels. He raced crazy circles on the grass, which bore few traces of the snow that had covered it last night. Laughing at the sight of him, she stripped off her clothes and slid into the steaming waters of a bubbling spring-fed pool. Quickly she rinsed her body of sweat and rabbit blood. From a leather pouch she took a handful of dried lavender steeped in its own oil and rubbed it into her hair. She closed her eyes, breathing in the restorative scent. When she opened them again, Xabi was next to her in the water.

  "You smell like summer," he remarked, picking up a strand of her hair. He held it in his palm, where it coiled like a small black salamander against his skin.

  She scooped out another handful of the lavender and rubbed it into his scalp. "So do you."

  He smiled, closing his eyes as she smoothed back his hair and ran her fingers over the angles of his skull.