The Girl From Oto Page 4

  Marguerite’s memories were interrupted by the sound of sandstone roof tiles tearing loose and careening off the tower onto the balustrade below. She flinched, opening her eyes. Her father-in-law the baron, urged on by the steward, had chosen a bad day to ride out from the castle. He was always stirring the pot, the steward, striding the halls barking orders, his iron keyring jangling at his hip. She had gleaned from eavesdropping that all the servants despised him. They complained that he never bothered to question the veracity of incriminating rumors and frequently invented them himself. This time, he had reported an incident of theft by serfs who worked the land a morning’s ride away. So he, her father-in-law and several other horsemen had gone to investigate the matter.

  A banging commenced that was nothing like the random smashing of roof tiles. She thrust Pelegrín into the arms of a maidservant and threw a cloak over her shoulders. In the corridor, the commotion was loud. Someone was thumping on the doors to the great hall.

  She descended the stairs and ordered a servant to unbar the doors. Two of the gate guards stood at the doorway. One of them shouted something at her and hoisted a bulging sack in his outstretched hand. A roof tile smashed on the cobblestones behind him.

  “Come in out of the wind.” She waved them inside.

  “The baron and the steward and their men, my lady,” he panted. “The serfs rose up against them. Murdered their masters, the lot of them! They left this at the gate.”

  “Murdered their masters,” she repeated, her eyes on the sack. A few dark drops leaked from it and spattered on the stone floor.

  The men stared at her, waiting. She dragged her gaze from the blood on the floor and took a deep breath. Whatever happened, the horror she felt must not show on her face.

  “There is no time to lose,” she said. “Go to the armory and tell the knight on duty to come here at once. Then light the beacon to alert our allies to this danger. We will send out a party at once to deal with this uprising. And tomorrow we shall send another party to carry the news of these murders to my husband in the south.”

  “But my lady—” began one of the guards.

  “Do not question me,” she interrupted, her voice like a whip. “Go at once!” She pointed in the direction of the armory, willing her hand not to tremble.

  Marguerite hauled a copper urn from the foot of the staircase to the entryway and heaved the sack into it. She called for a servant to fetch linen and water and wash away the dark smear of blood on the floor. When she turned, she spied her mother-in-law at the top of the staircase. In silence, the baroness tottered unsteadily back into the shadows.

  “Wait,” Marguerite called up to her.

  But before she could climb the staircase, a knight from the armory pounded into the great hall.

  The moment the castle gates slammed shut behind the horsemen, Marguerite hurried up the stairs to the baroness’s chamber. The door was locked. She slipped into the room through the cramped servants’ quarters next to the bedroom, a candle in one hand.

  Her mother-in-law lay on the bed, her clothing in disarray. The glass bottle of poppy milk was clutched in one hand; in the other was a dagger. Marguerite pressed her ear to the woman’s chest. There was no heartbeat. She snatched up the dagger, but the blade was clean. Whether the baroness had meant to stab herself or not, the poppy milk had finally stopped her heart. Marguerite stuffed the dagger and the empty bottle in her sleeve. She would do what she could to protect her mother-in-law from the gossips who lurked in every corner. For a moment, she stood with her head bowed, listening to the rattle of the shutters.

  The thought occurred to her that she was the baroness now.

  She strode to the door and and jerked aside the heavy iron bar. A wide-eyed servant boy stood in the corridor.

  “Go check the beacon and keep it fed with fresh wood,” she ordered him. The boy turned, but not fast enough. “Run.”

  Marguerite and a priest laid to rest what remained of her father-in-law in the chapel. She washed her mother-in-law’s body with lavender water and covered her with a drape of silk. Only then did she return to her chamber, wrench open the shutters and charge her lungs with gasps of frigid air. Standing on the balcony, braced against the wild onslaught of the wind, she reached for the gold chain at her throat, for the small ivory shell that dangled from it. The scent of lavender still clung to her hands. The scent of her childhood.

  The necklace had been a gift from the only person who showed her a measure of kindness on that long-ago journey from Béarn to Aragón in the summer of her ninth year. After her entourage climbed through the mountains to a wind-scoured pass and descended into Aragón, they stopped for a night at the monastery of San Juan de la Peña.

  The kind smile of Brother Johan Arros, who alone among the monks spoke fluent Béarnaise, was the only thing that kept her from dissolving in tears. In the monastery’s royal pantheon, he had showed her statues of Aragón’s dead kings.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “You can touch them if you want.”

  Marguerite traced the outline of a king’s nose with a fingertip. It was cool and smooth under her touch. “Who is this?”

  “King Ramiro. He was the first king of Aragón.”

  “Who is the king now?”

  “King Juan.”

  “Is he a good king?”

  “Of course, dear girl, of course.”

  “Brother Arros, are the barons of Oto buried here?”

  “No, my dear, they are buried in the chapel of their own castle, where you will soon be living.”

  “Are they good people?” She waited for his broad smile, his words of affirmation.

  Brother Arros hesitated a moment.

  “As much as all God-fearing people are good people,” he said soberly.

  He knelt. His blue eyes had lost their lively twinkle. He fished in a pocket and pulled out a scallop shell fashioned from ivory, strung on a fine gold chain.

  “When you wear this necklace, know the saints are looking after you.” He pressed it into her palm. “Lady Marguerite, you are always welcome here. If I may ever be of aid to you, it would be my honor.”

  Marguerite slipped the necklace over her head and the scallop shell settled against the bones of her chest. A pit of dread took root in her belly at that moment.

  It lay coiled within her still.

  She had rubbed the ivory shell between her thumb and forefinger so often since that day, it now shone with the brilliance of a precious jewel. Brother Arros had been true to his word. He had not forgotten his promise.

  A hawk circled overhead, rising higher and higher until it was a dark speck against a dull gray sky. If only she possessed the hollow bones of a bird, if only she had a secret pair of wings—she would leap off this balcony and skim over the mountaintops to Béarn, to her sweet girl. But she belonged here, with Pelegrín. She had entrusted Miramonde to the abbey across the mountains, and she would cling to the hope that the girl thrived there.

  Be brave. Make the Béarnais proud. The refrain had given her strength when she first stared into the unreadable dark eyes of Ramón de Oto, the man who would become her husband. It thrummed in her head the day she bled for the first time and knew she would soon wed him. It rose unbidden in her whenever she felt a pang of loneliness, of homesickness, of fear, of pain, and most of all, resolve. And today, on this day of horrors, it flowed through her mind like the pounding waters of a glacier-fed stream, once again her only comfort.

  “Baroness?” a maidservant called from inside. “Baroness?”

  The word descended on her like a stone.

  5

  Spring, 1487

  Zaragoza, Aragón

  Ramón

  Baron Ramón de Oto looked through the pile of letters that sat waiting for him in the front hall. The Zaragoza house had been shuttered for a year and the air had the stale smell that he always associated with the place. It was his least favorite of the Oto family’s holdings. The home had come into their possession generations ago, after the previous owners, wealthy wool merchants, were entirely extinguished in the course of one week by the plague. Their faces were carved in stone over the front door. The round face of the wife was placid and gentle, while her husband had a hawkish nose and a stern expression. Ramón had forgotten how much the man’s proprietary air annoyed him.

  It had been a long time since he set foot here. He had spent most of the last several years fighting the Moors in the south and launching raids into the French-occupied north. But now that his father was dead, Ramón had to assume the position of representative at the interminable council meetings of the sheep ranchers. For the sake of his family, for his young son Pelegrín, he was determined to plumb the inner workings of the wool trade and profit from it.

  Frowning, he pulled the red wax seal off a letter on the top of the pile. Carlo Sacazar had invited him to dine. The merchant family was an old one, whose rise to prominence as a sheep-raising, wool-trading force in Zaragoza was unmatched. The Sacazars had always been suspicious of the Otos for taking possession of their neighbor’s home all those years ago. But since there was no will and no heirs to dispute it, the Sacazars knew better than to stick their noses in the business of a powerful noble family.

  He called a servant to his side. Despite his aversion to the merchant class, he would accept the invitation. Studying the enemy seemed a prudent first step in his effort to understand the world of wool.

  Sitting at Carlo’s gleaming oak table, Ramón arranged his face into a blank mask. His eyes slid around the room. The stonework surrounding the hearth rivaled anything he had seen in the finest Moorish palace. The silver on the tabl
e was as fine as his own, and the smooth, rose-colored stone floor, laid with hand-hooked Moorish rugs, was more splendid than any surface in Castle Oto.

  “Pink marble,” Carlo announced, grinning at Ramón in an entirely too familiar way. “Imported from Italy.”

  Ramón did not return the smile. “Your family has done well.”

  When the servant approached from the left with a pitcher of wine, he made a hissing noise and struck at the boy with his hand. The boy jumped back, terrified.

  “Servants approach me from the other side. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, my lord,” the boy said.

  Carlo’s brow furrowed. “Forgive us, my lord.”

  “It is forgotten.” Ramón raised his cup in salute.

  Carlo followed suit. “It is my pleasure and privilege to have a representative of another great family at my table this night. It is about time we shared a meal, in my opinion. May I express the deep sorrow of my family at the passing of your parents, God rest their souls. And may I wish your son and heir a long and happy life, with many brothers and sisters to follow.”

  Ramón acknowledged Carlo’s niceties with a solemn nod, and they both sipped. The wine was excellent. A servant laid a platter of trout between them. Ramón examined it and made a slashing gesture with one hand.

  “I do not eat trout. Remove it at once.”

  The servant rushed forward and took up the platter.

  “How unfortunate that our cook chose to serve trout tonight,” Carlo said. He made a tut-tut noise, clicking his tongue on the roof of his mouth. “Yes, yes, remove it all. I will not eat what my guest will not eat.”

  In fact, Ramón loved trout. But he knew that Alfonso, King of Castilla for a brief moment in time a few years ago, had his royal career cut short by a meal of poisoned trout. In all likelihood, Carlo Sacazar did not plan to poison him. Still, it never hurt to be cautious.

  The next platter that emerged from the kitchens contained steaks fried in onions and garlic. Both men dug into their slabs of meat enthusiastically.

  “Is this one of yours?” Ramón asked, brandishing a chunk of steak on the tip of his knife.

  “Yes, we are proud of our beef.” Carlo chewed so vigorously that pink juices leaked from the corners of his mouth.

  The two men discussed wool prices, weather, the Moorish wars in the south, and the problem of predation on livestock by bears and wolves. When the meal was finished, Carlo’s intent became clear.

  “Your father likely informed you that both our houses share the services of a Moorish family who transported our wool to Tortosa for generations.”

  “Yes, the Mosequins?”

  “They have been ruined. They were caught out as heretics. Someone saw the old man Ebrahim praying the way they do. On his knees, on a rug. That is the rumor, anyway. And you know the punishment.”

  “Burned at the stake, I assume?”

  “The old man, yes. The rest have fled to Granada. They have family there. It’s where they all go now. They have nowhere left, I suppose.”

  “They knew the consequences,” Ramón said, shrugging.

  “My father considered them friends.” Carlo signaled to a servant to pour more wine. He pushed a plate of honey-soaked almonds across the table to Ramón.

  “That was a different time. No point dwelling on the past.” Ramón ignored the sweets.

  “Without them, we’ve lost our wool transport to the sea. They were the best in Zaragoza, and trustworthy. Our families both relied on them.”

  “We will find a new agent. It is simple enough.”

  “With all respect, Baron, it is not simple. There are only a few other wool transporting outfits in Zaragoza, and none of them have any interest in working with us. I’ve already inquired.”

  “It will be a different matter when I inquire, I assure you. I intend to increase my production of merino sheep and ship more wool east across the sea.”

  Carlo opened his mouth, then shut it.

  “The Florentine market is not what it once was,” he said after a moment, his mild gaze never leaving Ramón’s face. “But if you discover a way to accomplish your plan, I will be the first to congratulate you.”

  Leaning back in his chair in the chapter house of the church where the brotherhood convened each Easter, listening to the sheep-breeders arguing about poaching and territorial disputes, Ramón realized that Carlo Sacazar was right. Things had changed. The royal agents monitoring the meeting weighed in annoyingly on every little issue. Rights and privileges that used to belong to noble families now belonged to the royals. The only favor anyone was interested in currying was that of Queen Isabella. Even though King Ferdinand was the one from Aragón and she was Castilian, everyone knew she held the royal purse strings.

  Equally bad was the confirmation that the Italian markets had dwindled to nearly nothing because of the plague. Florence was a city of ghosts, the sheep-breeders said. Even if Ramón could find an outfit to pole-barge his wool along the River Ebro to the coast, the Italian merchants whose ships once moored at Tortosa were nearly all dead. His wool would rot on the wharves. Rats would carry off tufts to make nests; the grease in the fibers would go rancid in the summer sun.

  He worked the muscles in his jaw. When he flicked a glance across the table, he was irritated to see Carlo’s face plastered with smugness. No one in the room, save the royal agents, spoke more often or more confidently than he.

  Ramón wished that his father had spent more time instructing him in the ways of business. But whether he was raiding the French invaders in the north or fighting in the endless series of battles against the Moors in the south, his entire life had been dedicated to war. For the first time, he did not know what to do.

  After the meeting, Carlo led him to a small square adjacent to the church. They stood watching twilight descend over the city. An icy wind was blowing from the north. Instead of turning his back to the wind, however, Carlo let it scour his face. He opened his arms and smiled.

  “Feel the shock of it. Most men think of such a wind as a curse, but not me. It is a blessing, because God has seen fit to shower the Sacazar family with good fortune from the north.”

  Ramón felt a shudder of impatience run through him. He despised men who played games with words.

  “It amuses me to think of this as a trade wind,” Carlo went on. “Oh, I know it is far from warm and leagues from the sea, but a trade wind it is just the same.” He thrust a finger straight into the path of the wind. “Over the mountains. That is the place to sell wool. I already do. I transport it by mule across those mountains and sell it on the other side.”

  “You do business with the French?” Ramón put a hand on his sword, closing his fist reflexively around the handle. The unyielding coldness of the metal pressed through the leather of his glove.

  Carlo shook his head. “I sell the wool in Béarn, not France. I never set foot in France, I assure you. No reason to. But if the French want to buy my wool, why not?”

  “As a matter of family honor, I would never do business with the French. Our family holdings in the north are overrun with them. But Béarn—that is a different matter. My wife is from Béarn. So were my mother and grandmother.”

  “Ah! Then you are well suited to do business there. As long as the English and the French are at war, the trade routes for English wool will suffer and our merino will be in demand all over Europe. The future lies to the north, I promise you.”

  “A man’s promise is of little use to me. But I will consider your words,” Ramón said, bowing slightly. “Good evening.” He strode away across the darkening square, one hand still gripping the hilt of his sword.

  The plains that flanked the southern foothills of the Pyrenees were damp with mist. The horsemen traced a path across a field of low shrubs tipped with blue flowers, threading their way around jumbles of rock the color of old silver. They crossed a shallow stream. The clatter of hooves on stone filled the air, but Ramón ignored the sound, his mind churning with thoughts of Carlo Sacazar.