The Girl From Oto Page 2

  The horse clopped down the stone alley to the castle gates. The guards were not surprised to see her; she often came and went at odd hours.

  “Good evening, my lady!” called one. “Look at you on that fine horse.”

  “I’m not one to put on airs, you know that well enough,” she said in as light a voice as she could muster. “Even poor mountain folk like me are given a favor now and then.”

  The men unlatched the heavy iron crossbars and the great oak doors swung open.

  “Are you not afraid of wolves and bears?” the other guard asked.

  “Those creatures fear the moonlight. Puts them under a spell, it does.”

  He snorted. “The beasts outside these gates fear nothing but fire and iron.”

  She forced out a laugh and prodded the horse forward. Behind her, the crossbars clanged shut. She turned her head and spat. An urge rose up in her to yank the horse’s nose due west and gallop hard all the way to Basque country, to the edge of the world where the rivers flowed into the sea. Instead, she dug her heels into the horse’s belly, guiding it deep into the mountains. There was no point wasting her thoughts on idle fantasies. She would not betray a promise.

  The horse followed the moonlit trail across streams and through stretches of forest until it shambled to a stop at a fork. The baby took a shuddering breath and started to wail.

  The swiftest way into Béarn was the road to the right, which snaked down into a narrow valley where the yellow glow of a campfire was visible. This time of year, mule trains plied the road constantly, taking wares from Aragón to the market towns in the north. She did not like the idea of encountering the makers of that fire, especially with a shrieking baby and whatever Lady Marguerite had placed in the leather pouch she carried.

  To the left, the steep path led to the valley of Ronzal with its cluster of stone cottages. Elena squinted into the night. The moon was playing tricks on her, dappling the grass and trees with smears of silver light that moved and twisted in the wind. The baby’s cries hammered into her skull. Every wolf and bear for miles must be aware of them by now.

  She made her choice.

  The rhythm of the horse’s steps soon put the baby back to sleep. Overhead, the moon slid to the top of the sky. Her muscles were stiff with cold when they arrived in Ronzal, on the south-facing edge of a valley in the shadow of the mountains. In the moonlight she spied a thin column of smoke rising from the chimney hole of the de Luz family’s home. Before she even dismounted, Jorge opened the door.

  “What brings you here at this hour, my friend?” he called softly.

  “Come in, come in,” his wife Thérèse said quickly from behind him. “You’re always welcome here.”

  Jorge helped Elena off the horse and clapped a hand on her shoulder. For the first time in months, she felt the knot of worry in her chest ease. By the fire, she hastily untied her cloak and pulled the baby free.

  “Would you share your milk?” she asked Thérèse.

  Thérèse laid her infant son on the bed and took the baby girl in her arms. She fingered the soft wool wrappings and glanced up at Elena.

  “No peasant child is garbed in wool this fine.”

  Elena felt her throat tighten. She kept silent and rubbed her hands together before the fire while Thérèse settled in a chair with the girl at her breast.

  Jorge returned and latched the door. “The horse wears the brand of the Otos.” He crouched by the fire and threw a log on the smoldering embers, poking it with his dagger. “First you go live on the doorstep of your great enemy and now you steal his horse. You court death, Elena.”

  “I hate that I’ve drawn you into this. After all the kindness you’ve shown me.”

  Jorge’s eyes were on the infant at his wife’s breast. “Where will you take that one?”

  Elena deliberated a moment before answering. “Belarac.”

  “What will a child do there? The place crumbles into dust. I should know—we’re bound to them and they to us, and little good has come of it in my lifetime.”

  “The new abbess has stars in her eyes, that’s what.” Elena’s voice was bitter. “Stars and gold. When your men take the flocks down the mountain come autumn, go with them and see for yourself the changes that are afoot. Could be Ronzal’s fortunes will rise with Belarac, if you’re cunning about it.”

  “But what—”

  Thérèse stopped him with a look. “Let her rest.”

  At dawn, Elena said her goodbyes and guided the horse along the rough, winding path to the pass. Overhead the sky was a dull gray. Fog swirled through the notch that was the passage to Béarn, obscuring the ridges and deep valleys that lay to the north. The horse stumbled down slopes of shale, its hoofs scraping and clattering over the rock. Elena gripped the saddle with her thighs, one arm encircling the baby, her muscles aching with the effort to stay upright.

  Finally they slipped below the tree line into a pine forest, the silence pressing down on them like an invisible cloak. A lone crow followed them through the pines to a beech grove, scolding them with harsh, accusing cries. Elena vowed to herself that if its rasping woke the baby she would decapitate it with a well-aimed rock. But the girl slept through the journey, oblivious.

  The light of day had been nearly snuffed out when she saw the dark outlines of the abbey jutting into the purple sky. The baby began to wail. Elena dug her heels into the horse’s belly and it cantered through the narrow valley, kicking up dirt clods in the fields that radiated outward from the abbey’s high stone walls. At the gates, she pulled the frayed rope that hung from the battered iron bell.

  In a moment two shrouded figures appeared. One led the horse to the stables, the other motioned to Elena to follow her through a vast courtyard laid with dark cobblestones. The bell tower topped with its iron cross loomed overhead. She quelled a desire to run for the gates by biting her lip hard enough to taste blood.

  Inside the battered oak doors, two nuns waited. One of them reached for the baby. Elena stiffened.

  “What do you mean to do with her?”

  “The wet-nurse awaits,” the woman said. “Poor thing, she’s so hungry.”

  Elena worked the infant free from her wrappings. Her hands trembled. She gave her head a quick shake, attempting to clear the worry from it. Shouldn’t she be pleased to be done with this fool’s errand? Yet something within her hesitated. For some reason she couldn’t fathom, she hated the idea of handing the girl over.

  “Take the child then,” she said gruffly, “before she kills herself with all that screaming.”

  The chapel bell awoke Elena at dawn. A young nun led her through the dank corridors to the abbess’s residence. She padded past tapestries on the walls and heavy oak furniture that glistened with beeswax. Wasn’t this the way of things, she thought, rolling her eyes. The rest of the abbey reeked of poverty and ruin, but the abbess had made sure her private quarters were comfortable.

  Béatrice sat unsmiling behind her wide oak desk, her thin frame nearly swallowed up by her black habit. Her finger, when she pointed at a chair, put Elena in mind of a bird’s claw.

  “Your journey must have been difficult,” she said. “Sit.”

  “On the contrary, crossing those mountains is no trouble to me. I’ve known the way far too long.” Elena remained upright, though every muscle in her body was knotted with pain from the journey. She retrieved the pouch from her pocket and handed it over.

  “God protected you and the child from the dangers in those woods,” Béatrice said, weighing the pouch in her hand. “Our prayers were answered.”

  Elena wanted to say that God and prayers had nothing to do with it, but she held herself in check.

  “And Lady de Oto?” Béatrice asked. “The birth of her child was not too difficult?”

  “She suffered, but not more than any woman bearing twins.”

  Béatrice d
rew her eyebrows together in a frown.

  “The girl was born first,” Elena said. “Her mother calls her Miramonde. Second came a son. His father will name the boy when he returns from the southern wars.”

  “A son. How fortuitous.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Ramón de Oto has an heir. Surely you see the value in that.”

  Elena shrugged. “’Tis none of it my concern.”

  Béatrice’s lips compressed into a thin line. “Belarac once gave you sanctuary when you had nowhere else to go. And as for that family—you now live within their gates. Your every move is at their mercy. I would say that makes them very much your concern.”

  Elena said nothing, just pulled up her sleeve and held out her scarred arm.

  “Oh, God save you. I’ve told you before, Belarac is not to blame for that.”

  “No—Ramón de Oto is.”

  “You were both children,” Béatrice said, standing. “He is grown now, a warrior. One day he will be a baron. A spat with a kitchen waif does not warrant remembering for a man such as he. So put aside your fears.”

  “You misjudge me, Abbess. I don’t fear the man. I despise him. And his father before him. The lot of ’em, in truth. I hate the house of Oto.”

  “Ah. Thank you for that point of clarification. And now I have things to attend to.”

  Elena did not turn away. “The girl must never learn who her people are.”

  “Of course. She will simply be known as an orphan who boards here.”

  “Another thing. She won’t be shut up in here whispering prayers all the year long.”

  Béatrice stiffened. “That is enough impertinent talk from a mountain woman. For now, all the girl needs is a wet-nurse. I believe we can agree on that count, at least? In any event, I will decide how she spends her days.”

  Elena shook her head. “No. Her mother decides. She wouldn’t have named her Miramonde if she wanted her locked inside these walls rotting away.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Miramonde—one who sees the world.”

  “How interesting that her mother would ascribe such power to the name of a girl. Is there a letter from the lady to this effect, or have you become her mouthpiece?”

  “What I am is a messenger, and if you wish me to deliver more gold into your hands, you’ll do well to heed my words.”

  Elena wheeled on the abbess and stalked out the door.

  2

  Autumn, 1485

  Abbey of Belarac, Béarn

  Béatrice

  Béatrice stood just outside the gates and watched the shepherds and flocks make their descent down the steep slope into Belarac’s sheltered valley. The discordant rattle of iron bells reverberated in her ears. She squinted against the sun’s glare, tracking the movements of a sinewy man who separated from the group and made his way through the orchard to the abbey.

  “I am Jorge de Luz,” he said to her, bowing. “I speak for the shepherds of Ronzal.” He had thick black hair and a short beard, and his Béarnaise was flawless.

  “You are not Aragónese?”

  “My wife comes from Béarn. She taught me the local tongue.”

  “Ah.” Béatrice looked past him at the milling flocks, the heavily laden pack mules, the golden dogs with their spiked collars. Her eyes lingered on the shepherds. In their flax blouses, wool vests and black felt hats, they looked like prosperous peasants, a far cry from the filthy pagans she had expected.

  “Welcome,” she said. “There is much to discuss. Will you return this evening to the abbey after your work is done? You and all of your men? For supper.”

  He looked startled. “Aye, if that pleases you, Abbess.” He tipped his hat at her and turned away.

  A table was set in the warming house next to the gates. When the men filed in, their hair and faces were dripping with water from the stream. The servants spooned a thin gruel into bowls and poured beer into ceramic cups.

  “The crops here are not what they used to be,” apologized Béatrice. “We do not get much meat or fish either.”

  “There’s a bit more time before winter is upon us,” Jorge said. “We’d be happy to hunt and fish for you these next few weeks.”

  “I did not realize that shepherds are also hunters.”

  “We do what we must,” Jorge said. “All of us are handy with a bow and a knife. We’re no strangers to axes either.”

  One of the shepherds, a bony man with a jutting nose and eyes fixed in a dark scowl, began to talk rapidly in Aragónese.

  “What does he say?” Béatrice waited for a translation.

  Jorge silenced the man with a fierce look. “We’re grateful to you, Abbess, for honoring the ancient agreements,” he began tactfully. “Our animals can’t survive the snows in Ronzal, and we’re lucky to have this valley for refuge. The problem is, in winter there is so little fodder for our sheep here that we’re forced to butcher them and sell the meat.”

  “You still earn income that way,” she pointed out.

  “A thirst for our wool grows in the north—and merino wool fetches a much higher price than meat. That’s hard to take for the men.”

  “The plague very nearly drained all life from this place, and it still suffers,” she said. “You’ve seen how many cold hearths there are in the village. With so few peasants to work the fields, we are limited in what we can grow.” Her eyes flicked back to the scowling man. “Does your friend offer any ideas to solve this problem?”

  “His ideas sound more like insults,” said Jorge, smiling wryly. “But I’ve an idea. In our valley, younger brothers and sisters must leave and find their own way. Why not point them to Belarac? The empty cottages in this valley could fill up with families again, with the brothers and sisters of these men. Then you’ll have strong hands to work the fields and plow and harvest, and we’ll have more fodder for the flocks come winter.”

  “But they would lose their freedom. Mountain shepherds are free men, are they not?”

  Jorge nodded. “There is no lord who rules over us. We are governed by the peace accords, the fueros. The house of Oto can’t touch us, nor can any other noble.”

  Béatrice stiffened in her chair. Her mind darted to the copper-haired baby asleep in the nursery.

  “What about the kings?” she asked.

  “The kings of Aragón honor the ancient agreements. Everyone honors the agreements—except for the sheep ranchers of Jaca and Zaragoza.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come summer they send their flocks to the high meadows. Sheep pour into our valleys like a flood. They want us out, want all the grass for themselves. We’ve been willing to share, but their numbers keep swelling. The conflicts grow uglier with each passing year.”

  She barely heard him. The word ‘Oto’ rumbled through her mind like a thunderhead, drowning out all sensible thoughts. With great effort she willed her mind away from the girl Miramonde, forcing herself back to the conversation at hand, to the dark-haired men across the table.

  “It is interesting that you say the demand for your wool grows. Meanwhile, the abbey’s own flocks bear coarse wool that no merchant worth his salt will buy. I have a proposal of my own for you. We are better served slaughtering the animals we own and replacing them with your merinos. How much does a merino sheep fetch at the livestock market in Jaca? I will pay for the flock in gold.”

  She thought of the sack of coins Elena had brought from Marguerite de Oto. It was still half full.

  Before Jorge even finished translating her words, the men exploded in high-volume Aragónese, shouting over one another in an effort to be heard.

  Jorge stood, his arms outstretched, and let out a single, ominous “Ah!” Silence fell over the group. The tall, sharp-nosed shepherd who had spoken up in the beginning folded his arms over his chest and stuck his ch
in out at a defiant angle.

  “The men disagree about that idea,” Jorge said. “They’ve heard that in Castilla, if any man sells merino sheep out of the kingdom, his life is forfeit.”

  “This is not Castilla,” Béatrice said. “Your sheep have overwintered on these lands for generations. Merinos journey back and forth from Aragón to Béarn each year unharmed, and so do their shepherds. You just finished telling me the peace agreements are honored by the kings.”

  “Still, some of the men are uneasy about the idea of selling sheep. Even if we agreed to it, I’d not want to write a note of sale on parchment.”

  Béatrice stared at him, speechless.

  “Yes, I can write.” There was a trace of impatience in his voice. “The council of families in each valley keeps records about livestock, grazing agreements, disputes. Those who sit on the council must read and write and work figures.”

  “Do you keep records of the number of fleeces you sell, the price you are paid for them?”

  “Of course.”

  “In your record book, then, the merinos that grow fat on my crops will be listed as your possessions. But half of them will be the property of the abbey, and proceeds from the sale of their wool will be split between us. Privately. If you agree, your plan to populate our village with the spare brothers and sisters of Ronzal shall be done. What do you say?”

  Jorge regarded her for a long while. He pointedly refrained from translating her last words, one hand held aloft to ward away the glares and disgruntled sighs of his men. Finally he spoke.

  “We are in agreement.”

  Béatrice looked around the table in wonder. She had been expecting a pack of heathens clothed in filthy animal skins. She was wrong on at least one count—the clothes they wore were not what she had expected. And if they were heathens—well, God save them. As long as these men proved valuable to Belarac, how they worshipped was of no importance.

  The following day she spent hours in the library poring over the abbey’s record books. Her eyes scanned rows of numbers until she was caught up by an entry that looked nothing like the others: “Manuscripts, books, and sundries. Sold to Carlo Sacazar, merchant of Nay.” She squinted. How many ducats were these items sold for? The numerals were blurred by a stain.