The Promise Page 3
Elena shrugged. “These mountains are filled with caves and healing waters. They’re also crawling with wolves and bears.”
The men exchanged a worried glance.
“How will we find our way back to the King’s Road?” asked the smaller man. His hands clutched the shell around his neck so tightly that his knuckles shone white.
“We’ll take you there tomorrow, to the toll crossing.”
“What a blessed kindness,” the taller man said, relief etched on his face. “God is watching. He sees how good you are to us.”
Elena kept her eyes on the fire and said nothing. Xabi returned just as darkness descended, his footsteps silent on the soft forest floor. The dog settled nearby, his watchful eyes on the pilgrims.
When the rabbits were roasted, the pilgrims greedily sucked the flesh off the bones. They protested when Xabi threw chunks of meat to the dog.
His eyes narrowed. "By morning you will likely owe your lives to this dog."
In the silence that followed, the high, wavering sound of a wolf’s howl drifted down through the treetops. It was answered by more wolfsong. The dog lifted his head and growled.
“We shall be torn to pieces in our sleep by wolves tonight,” the slighter man moaned.
His companion’s eyes grew round with terror.
Xabi threw more wood on the fire. “Not as long as this fire burns. Though I’d take care to sleep near the flames if I were you. For safety’s sake.”
Both pilgrims scrambled closer to the fire and pressed their shoulders together.
“And pray for us,” Elena couldn’t help adding. “That should help ward off the creatures of the night.”
Xabi fought to keep a sober expression on his face.
“Yes,” said the tall man, smoothing rabbit drippings into his beard with trembling fingers. “I shall pray for our safety all night. I shan’t sleep a wink.”
His companion, eyes shut tight, lips moving silently, was already lost in prayer.
9
Spring, 1484
Elena and Xabi watched the black-clad pilgrims trudge up the King's Road toward the tariff collectors’ gates. All morning they had led the men along animal tracks through the forest, climbing slopes so steep that the pilgrims moaned and protested. The two of them, pink faces beading with sweat, had proved as irritating as a pair of buzzing flies. But now, finally, they had said their goodbyes. A breeze funneling down from the white peaks in the north cooled Elena’s face as the noise of the pilgrims’ complaints faded away.
"Let’s take shelter under that pine and watch until they pass through the gates.” She pointed into the woods at a tall pine surrounded by dense shrubs. Xabi nodded.
Settled in the shade, they looked on as the pilgrims took their place at the back of a long queue of travelers leading heavily loaded mules and ox-carts.
"They'll have a good rest now, whether they want it or not," said Xabi, taking out his leather water pouch. He offered it to Elena. “I’ve not seen so many beasts and men in one spot since the wool market at Jaca.”
"The snows have only just cleared. This is the beginning of the spring rush."
Elena’s mind flickered to long-buried memories of the first time she saw this place. She remembered her small hands clutching the pommel of a saddle, the sound of hooves striking the rocky ground, the sight of Brother Arros’s rotund form astride the mule ahead of her. The day when she left Aragón and everything she knew, bound for a new life in Béarn. But Béarn hadn't wanted her—it spat her back over the mountains again, to begin her life of wandering.
Her memories were interrupted by a commotion on the road. The long line of travelers, animals, and carts began to split, peeling from the center of the road to its margins, making way for a group heading south. The crack of whips, the clatter of wooden wheels, the snorting and stamping of animals filled the air. An entourage of knights surrounding an oxcart draped in dark cloth approached.
Xabi and Elena watched in silence from the shadow of the pine tree, hidden from view. When the procession drew abreast of them, revealing the banners draped on the horses’ flanks, Elena drew in a sharp breath.
She dropped the water pouch. Liquid pulsed out of it, wetting the pine needles underfoot.
"Which house is that?” Xabi said, his voice low.
“The barons of Oto,” she whispered.
Elena stared at the man who rode just ahead of the oxcart. His black horse was the largest in the group, its tail and mane arranged in elaborate braids. The man wore red leather armor and his head was concealed by a polished metal helmet. A great sword hung from his waist.
She clasped her trembling hands together. Without another word, Xabi slipped an arm around her shoulders and she leaned into him. They sat like that until the group disappeared on the road south and the travelers had reformed a ragged line, awaiting their turns with the gatekeepers and the tariff collectors. Taking comfort from Xabi’s warm body next to hers, Elena tried to push away the image of the black horse and its rider.
But there was no use. Like the dark fragment of a nightmare, the helmeted man in his red armor had burrowed into her mind.
10
Spring, 1484
Elena and Xabi slipped quietly south through the forest toward San Juan de La Peña, the dog padding behind them. The dense canopy of branches overhead allowed little sunshine into the woods. They had to reroute often to avoid fallen trees, brambles, and slopes of loose shale. It was by no means the fastest or most pleasant way to the monastery. But it was foolish to travel the main road where any wild thing or bandit hiding in the woods would have a clear advantage in an attack.
And they were in no rush, Elena thought, watching Xabi stride along the trail ahead of her. She heard the gentle clink of his tools inside the leather satchel slung over his shoulders. For a moment, she allowed herself to indulge in a memory of their first night together in the cabin, when she had invited him into her bed and was shocked to discover she never wanted him to leave.
Xabi turned, offering her the water pouch. “Why did the sight of those men frighten you?”
He had said nothing of the encounter until now. Perhaps he had been waiting for some explanation from her.
She refused a drink, stared at him tight-lipped, not wanting to let the helmeted rider back in her thoughts. “The barons of Oto are a cruel lot. Only a fool wouldn’t be frightened by them.”
“Have they harmed you?”
Elena cast her eyes off to the side of him, watching the dog’s tail twitch as it pressed through a thicket of shrubs.
Her fingers formed a circle around her scarred wrist. It was all so long ago. She had spent a lifetime hammering the memories into dust. Why dredge them up again now?
Before she could answer, the warning trill of a snow finch rang out. The dog growled low in his throat.
Xabi’s expression tightened. “We’re close to the road,” he said. “Stay here.”
He crept through the underbrush, drawing abreast of the dog. Elena stood with her hands on her hips a moment, then closed the gap between them with a few long strides. Xabi glanced back over his shoulder, throwing her a dark look.
“You should know by now,” Elena said, shrugging. “I’m not a very good listener.”
The unmistakable moan of a man floated through the trees. The King’s Road was visible now. They waited in the shadows a moment, listening for other voices. But all they heard was another feeble moan. They moved forward again. Both of them spotted the man at the same time—he lay in a ditch just off the road.
There was no one else in sight.
They clambered down into the ditch. The man was slight, dressed in the rough homespun of a peasant, his feet bare. No blood leaked from his body as far as they could tell. Upon closer examination, Elena decided his main affliction was an enormous, purpling lump over one eye.
“We’re nearly to the turnoff for the monastery,” Xabi said. “Lucky for him and me, there’s not much to the fellow.”
Finally the soaring cliffs of San Juan de la Peña rose up before them. From this vantage point, the monastery was completely hidden behind trees, its dun-colored structures tucked into caves at the base of the cliffs. A small valley lay adjacent to the monastery, and Elena saw the figures of brown-clad monks moving about its fields. Some of the brothers walked behind mules hitched to plows, etching careful rows in the soil. Others cast seed into the furrows from baskets strapped to their chests.
At the sight of the travelers, two monks stopped their work and offered their assistance. Within moments, the monks had the injured man in their arms and were hurrying ahead to the infirmary.
Xabi and Elena shuffled along behind them, completely spent.
It turned out every room in the monastery’s guesthouse was occupied by traders and merchants heading north. Elena and Xabi spent an uncomfortable night bedded down on a nest of canvas wool sacks in the shearing room by the stream.
* * *
The next morning, they ventured to the crowded guesthouse, where they found space on a bench at the breakfast table. As the lodgers consumed an unappetizing breakfast of unsalted porridge, stale bread, and weak ale, Brother Arros made steady progress around the table greeting people in various languages.
He had thickened around the middle since Elena was a girl. His monk’s fringe had disappeared altogether, and his scalp was pink from long afternoons in the orchards and fields. She had always loved his eyes, which were the grey-blue of the silty waters that flowed from the mountaintops into this narrow valley. When he smiled the lines around his eyes deepened and his whole face glowed with joy. Watching him, Elena was struck as usual by his gift for human connection. Even the most suspicious, reticent travelers warmed to him as if he radiated sunlight.
“This bread is too hard,” complained an old man whose black velvet cap, fine wool vest, and tall oiled boots marked him as a person of importance. “I should have had my servants bring some along.”
“Oh dear,” Brother Arros said. “We’ve no other bread, I’m afraid.”
“We did bring bread, Grandfather,” said his companion, a younger man with a gentle voice. “Flora gave us a sack filled with it when we left Zaragoza. She filled it with your favorite soft white buns. But we already ate them all, remember?”
“Now, Carlo, this is no time for jests. Your wife is a fine woman, but she cares not for the suffering of my belly. All she wants is for you to sell more wool so she can get another rope of pearls fat as chickpeas.” The old man’s attention drifted a moment. Then he turned to Brother Arros, indignant. “If I had eaten bread on this journey, I would have remembered!”
Brother Arros patted the man’s arm and made soothing noises.
The younger man looked down at his bowl and sighed.
“As soon as we arrive in Nay,” the old man went on, “send out for bread. Plump loaves of the finest flour, not the coarse stuff that makes my teeth crumble like limestone.”
“As you wish, Grandfather.”
Elena caught the younger man’s eye. He smiled. His face was round, his brown eyes wide and fringed with long black lashes. Poor fellow. Saddled with a grandfather whose mind was turning to mush. The thought of watching a loved one’s long, slow slide into madness made her shudder. It was the only comfort she took from her mother’s death. At least she would never bear that sorrow.
When the other travelers had finished their meal and filed out of the room, Brother Arros sank down on the bench across from Elena and Xabi.
“The saints above,” he said, beaming. “It’s always a rare delight to host one or the other of you. But both at the same time! It warms my heart. How did you manage to come upon that unfortunate traveler at exactly the same moment?”
Xabi flicked a glance at Elena. There was a trace of amusement in his eyes.
“It was no accident,” she said flatly. “We were journeying together.”
“Together? But this is a story that merits telling,” Brother Arros said, eyes wide.
“It’s a story for another time. First, take us to the infirmary. I want to see that man.”
“Very well.” Brother Arros made no effort to mask his disappointment. “As usual, I’m to be left in the dark.” He pushed himself up from the table and gestured to them to follow him. “Elena’s doings are shrouded in mystery,” he said to Xabi with a confidential air. “I consider myself very fortunate to hear even the scantest details about her life, though I’ve known her since she was a tiny girl. I try to chisel away at her secrets, get even the roughest sketch of her adventures. For no one loves a good story as much as I.”
“I’ve told you plenty of good stories,” Elena scoffed. “My throat grows sore each year when I come here, from all the talking I do.”
“Would that were true,” Brother Arros said mournfully. “I shall have to make do with the comfort of your presence, and hope that one day you’ll prove more loquacious.”
“If I understood the meaning of that word, I might be able to grant your wish,” she retorted.
“It means talkative, my dear.”
“You should’ve just said that, then.”
Behind them, Xabi chuckled.
“You two are like oil and water,” he observed.
“Oil and vinegar is closer to the truth,” Brother Arros said.
Despite herself, Elena smiled.
11
Spring, 1484
The infirmary was crammed with pilgrims. Their black cloaks and hats hung from pegs on the walls next to the straw pallets where they lay.
“It’s a wonder to me that some of them still walk this earth,” Brother Arros said quietly as they threaded their way through the crowded room to the injured man. “They get into all manner of scrapes. Each season brings its terrors. There’s the odd encounter with wolves or bears. Those don’t often end well. Lately, bandits on the King’s Road are the main problem. The demand from the north for wool, wine, oil, and saffron grows with each passing year, and so do the ox-carts and mule trains full of goods. Traders are growing wise to bandits, hiring guards for the crossing. But pilgrims are easy pickings.”
He crouched down at the side of the injured man. “Can you speak?” he asked in the common dialect.
The man stared blearily at him from his good eye. The other was swollen shut and circled with blue-black bruises.
“I can,” he said.
“These folks took pity on you and carried you here,” Brother Arros said, jerking his head toward Xabi and Elena. “You’d be dead if it weren’t for them, by the grace of God.”
“What happened?” Xabi asked the man.
“I didn’t get out of their way fast enough.”
“Whose way?”
“My mule’s ankle grows lame. Sometimes she refuses to budge. I tried to get her out of the road when I saw those nobles coming, but they pounded down at us without pause. I pushed at her with all my strength. Then a big fellow on a horse, dressed in red leather, rode up to me so close I could smell the oil on his boots. He said nothing, just raised his sword.”
The man’s voice trailed off.
“And?” Elena asked, impatient for the story to end.
“And that’s all. I don’t remember any more.”
“He clearly didn’t run you through with his sword,” Xabi said. “Hit you with the butt of it, more likely.”
“What about my mule? Did he steal her, do you suppose?”
“I doubt a nobleman would steal a lame mule. More likely she wandered into the woods. She won’t survive long if that’s the case.”
The man’s lips trembled. “That mule’s all I have.”
“You may yet f
ind her again,” Brother Arros said. “In the meantime, you’re fortunate to be alive.”
The man looked at Xabi and Elena. “There’s not many who’d help one such as me.”
Xabi shrugged. “I’d hope someone would do the same for us. Did you get a look at the banners they flew?”
The man nodded.
“What did they show?”
“Sheep and ships. And castles.”
Brother Arros and Elena exchanged a glance. She pulled a wad of something from the pouch at her waist.
“Here.” She thrust it at the man. “Bark of the willow. Chew it and your pain will ease.”
He touched the dry husky mass to his lips and gave it a tentative lick.
“No.” Elena bent down and pushed the wad of willow bark into his mouth. “Now chew.”
“Do as she tells you,” Brother Arros advised. “She is wise in the ways of healing. Far wiser than me or any of the brothers within these walls.”
The man lay back, closed his eye, and resolutely began to chew.
* * *
Walking back to the guesthouse, Elena stewed over the injured man’s words.
“We saw men from the house of Oto on the King’s Road two days ago,” she said. “Their leader was all in red armor. Must have been the baron or his son.”
Brother Arros shook his head. “It was no Oto who struck that man, but their steward. That group stopped here yesterday for ale and bread. They wanted grain for their horses and oxen.”
“The baron and his son weren’t among them?”
“The baron is at Castle Oto. Ramón fights the Moors in the south for Queen Isabella. That is what the steward said.”
“What brought them north?”
“He wouldn’t share the reason for his journey. He only said that the baron sent him to attend to a matter of trade.”
“And he spreads violence along the way. No doubt he’s ordered to do so by his lord. In keeping with the ways of his house.”