The Girl From Oto Read online

  What rankled him most was Carlo’s assertion that he would gladly do business with the French. Clearly the man, as a member of the merchant class, had no personal stake in the issue of raiders from the north. The Otos, on the other hand, had a castle and lands in the northern territory of Cerdagna which had been stolen by the French when Ramón was a boy. One of his fiercest desires was to reclaim that property.

  Joining the main road, the horsemen cantered toward the mountains, kicking up a spray of mud behind them. Ramón caught sight of a flock of sheep in the distance. Again he thought of Carlo and wondered if the sheep belonged to him. The idea struck Ramón that Carlo might be wealthier than he, and a scowl settled upon his face. The merchant class was unencumbered by the responsibilities of the nobles to their king and queen. If Carlo had to take up arms in the holy wars, his coddled existence would be quickly snuffed out. But for now, despite Ramón’s aversion to the man, it would be wise to heed his guidance when it came to the business of wool.

  At least he had one trump card up his sleeve: The Abbey of Belarac. It lay on the ancient pilgrimage route that passed between Aragón and the market towns of Béarn. His family had been patrons of the place long ago. He remembered visiting there once as a child, but the connection between his family and the abbey was severed soon afterward, when the plague swept through Belarac. A letter from the new abbess came shortly after he married Marguerite, pleading for the house of Oto to renew its patronage. His father had shown no interest, and Ramón himself told Marguerite to write a letter of refusal. Then he forgot the matter entirely. Until now. Perhaps some use could be wrangled from the abbey after all.

  He glanced at the sky, marking the path of the sun with his eyes, estimating the distance that remained. In a few days he would see Belarac for himself, and he would have his answer.

  6

  Spring, 1487

  Abbey of Belarac, Béarn

  Béatrice

  The children shrieked with delight, chasing a blue butterfly through the plot of bare dirt in the infirmary cloister. Béatrice smiled in satisfaction, ticking items off a list in her mind. By the end of the week, the garden would be entirely planted in herbs, beans, peas, carrots and greens. She had asked two villagers to dig up wild rose plants from the slopes overlooking the valley and deliver them to her today.

  Miramonde de Oto, called Mira by the residents of Belarac, ran among the other children. Leaping with one hand outstretched to ensnare the fluttering butterfly, she tripped over the hem of her skirt and fell face-first in the dirt. As far as Béatrice could tell, the mishap had no effect on the girl, who jumped up and resumed her pursuit of the butterfly at once. But that was Mira. Her tolerance for discomfort was unlike that of any other child in Béatrice’s experience.

  It was time for the next delivery of Oto gold from the mountain woman Elena, payment for the care and feeding of the girl. Yet the spring rains were behind them, the crops had been planted, and still the woman did not come. Béatrice tried not to worry. After all, it had been a harsh winter. Perhaps snow still covered the pass.

  The sound of a man shouting invaded her thoughts, and she walked quickly to the abbey gates. A wild-eyed villager grasped the iron rungs.

  “Horsemen approach, Mother Abbess,” he cried. “Be on guard.”

  Béatrice heard the far-off thrumming of hooves on the hard-packed dirt road. Many hooves, from the sound of it.

  “Tell all the villagers you see to go inside their homes and bar the doors, do you hear?” The man wheeled and sprinted away.

  She put a hand on the iron keyring at her waist. A young nun who had become her assistant of sorts, Agathe, had followed her to the gates. Béatrice found her voice.

  “Sister Agathe, gather the children. Tell everyone you see to go to the chapel. Sisters and servants alike. Go!”

  Agathe hurried away. The sound of hoofbeats was louder. Béatrice stood back, her eyes on the stone wall and the sharp spires of the gate. Was it high enough to keep marauders out? She swallowed and closed her eyes for a moment.

  “Mira!” she heard a girl call. “Where are you? Mira!”

  Béatrice whirled. One of the novices who cared for the children was darting this way and that in the courtyard.

  “What is the matter?” Béatrice asked, listening to the clatter of hooves in the distance. Were there three horses? Ten?

  “Mira is hiding. I don’t know where she is,” the girl said, her blue eyes wide with fear.

  “Go to the chapel. I will find the child.” The girl hesitated.

  “Go.”

  The girl ran off.

  The horsemen were nearly at the gate.

  Pounding rose in her ears like thunder. She turned to face it. There was a blur of color, dust rising from the road, the stamping of hooves, the glint of armor. Béatrice took a step forward, then froze, staring at the banners carried by the horsemen. Her legs felt weighted down by lead.

  A man on a great black horse pulled off his helmet and gazed around impatiently, one hand on the hilt of his sword. He wore a suit of red leather armor with a mail shirt underneath. His bearded face was lean and dark, his mouth a wide red slash, his eyes shaded by thick brows.

  “Mother Abbess,” he shouted. “The house of Oto calls.” His deep voice had an Aragónese lilt to it.

  Several of the other men laughed.

  At that moment a child’s giggle broke out behind Béatrice. The high, clear sound of it floated over the gates. Mira de Oto appeared at her side. Her slanting gray-green eyes were fixed on the horsemen. Béatrice bent down and snatched her up.

  “My lord. Please forgive us—we are not prepared for your visit.” She craned her head, searching in vain for a litter bearing other members of the noble family. “Do you bring your lady wife? And the Baron and Baroness?”

  Béatrice pressed Mira’s face into her shoulder. She felt the thumping of Mira’s heart intertwine with her own heartbeat, and her nostrils filled with the acrid odors of horse dung and sweat. The girl struggled to free herself.

  “I am the baron now, Abbess,” Ramón said. “Pray for the souls of my parents. My father was betrayed on his own lands, and the shock of his murder killed my mother.” He tossed his helmet to a squire as he dismounted. “Their deaths grieve me more than I can say.”

  At the sound of his voice, the girl stopped squirming. Her small body relaxed against Béatrice’s chest and she turned her head, listening.

  Ramón walked to the gate and thrust out a hand, rattling the rungs. “I have not ridden across the mountains simply to share the news of my parents’ death, Mother Abbess. I have come to make amends and soothe an old hurt. Our family once patronized this place. Though my father let the connection lapse, I vow to do better.”

  “Yes, my lord—forgive my confusion. I thought, when my letter to your family went unanswered, that—”

  Before she could complete her sentence, Mira pulled the cap off her head and flung it on the ground, revealing her long coppery hair. Béatrice froze in horror.

  “Surely there is more for me to see here than a child from your nursery,” Ramón said in exasperation. “Or shall I begin my inspection with her?”

  His men laughed again.

  Béatrice felt her knees nearly give way.

  The baron’s men were ensconced in the warming house next to the gates, tearing into a spread of beer, bread and ham. She had sent the oldest and least attractive servants to tend them. Mira was whisked away to the nursery. Ramón de Oto showed no sign of recognition at the sight of his daughter. And why would he? As far as he knew, she had never existed. The thought calmed Béatrice’s mind. Her racing heart slowed.

  After he ate his fill, the young baron strode out of the warming room, the heels of his dusty black boots clicking on the stone pavers. Béatrice was waiting for him at the gates.

  They strolled through the fields and orchards. She was rightly proud of the progress the villagers had made in the valley, taming the brambles, tilling and replanting the fields, stringing up frames for the hops. Slender shoots of new green wheat shimmered under the noonday sun and neat rows of hop vines twined up alder frame poles, snaking along the flax ropes that connected them. Surely this display of organization would impress him.

  “Wheat and barley—but not as much as I would like to see. And hops. You brew beer on rather a large scale for a convent, I would say.” His deep voice with its rolling R’s had a disdainful edge to it.

  “We trade beer with neighboring landholders in exchange for grain and straw to feed the sheep during winter,” she explained.

  “Bartering is one thing. Gold is another. How do you earn income?”

  “We draw a small amount of income from several sources. Our record books will show you how we have fared since I took the helm of this place.”

  She thanked God that she had burned every one of the letters sent by Marguerite de Oto, and her stash of Oto gold was hidden in a place unknown even to the cellaress. The record books showed no mention of that transaction.

  Ramón surveyed the far hills, his eyes on the cluster of stone huts and willow pens that housed sheep during winter.

  “Where are your flocks? This valley bursts with crops, but I see no sheep.”

  “The shepherds sheared them, then herded the flocks to the high meadows. We shall take the fleeces to market in Nay come June.”

  “Nay, is it? I know a merchant there. My flocks in Aragón are large, but the demand for wool comes now from the north, not across the eastern sea. Perhaps some of my animals could overwinter here. The valley is plenty large enough for my purposes. The beasts could be sheared here as well, and the wool transported to Nay for sale at market.”

  His brown eyes swiveled over the fields and orchards, assessing, calculating. When they settled on her face, the skin on her neck prickled. He was the most intimidating man she had ever encountered, but she kept her voice steady.

  “We would be delighted to accommodate you, my lord.”

  A servant opened the tall iron gates and the two of them passed through to the courtyard. An enormous pile of rags by the warming house door caught Ramón’s attention. He stopped in mid-stride. “Even a place as downtrodden as this should be kept tidy.”

  “When we are not hosting visitors, the warming house is a workshop of sorts. The nuns are making paper from linen, my lord. It is a technique invented by the Moors.”

  “It is a common technique. Our family uses nothing else for correspondence.”

  Béatrice felt a stab of irritation at his condescending tone. “I am from the north,” she said. “Linen paper of this quality is not common there, so we have developed a trade in it. It is a modest addition to our income, but every bit helps.”

  “Indeed. So—you build wealth with beer, grain, paper, and wool.”

  “Yes.” She hesitated. If she was going to ask for more, now was the moment. “However, my lord, this is just a beginning. If we had a wool washing station, we could sell wool that is ready to be spun and finished. The merchants of Nay desire it, and they say it is coveted by merchants as far away as Flanders.”

  “They say, eh?” Ramón scoffed. “I could swear I heard the exact words from Carlo Sacazar.”

  “I am also acquainted with Lord Sacazar. There is no one more schooled in the wool trade than he. Why not benefit from his knowledge? After the shearing, we could wash wool for you, then sell it in Nay. You would scarce be involved. Of course, we would need funds to construct the wool washing station.”

  He thrust a hand under his cloak and pulled out a leather sack. “There is talk of another war with the Moors. One day soon I will be called to battle again by Queen Isabella. The matter could take years to resolve.” He tossed the sack in the air and caught it. The jangle of coins rang in her ears. “This is more than enough to build your wool washing station. But my flocks will take precedence over your scrubby Béarnais sheep, do you understand? I possess the finest merinos in Aragón. I will be comparing the income you report to me with those of other sheep-breeders in the region who sell their wool in the north. I expect higher returns than any of them. Is that clear?”

  She bowed her head. “Of course. Thank you, my lord. Your generosity will not go unnoticed by God.”

  “Nor the Queen. Before I leave here, you will write to Queen Isabella to report on my generosity.”

  She hurried to keep up with him. His legs were impossibly long. He stopped and turned to face her, leaning so close she could smell his bitter sweat.

  “The Queen must know every detail of my piety. In fact, let us proceed to the chapel, so that I may confess to the priest. You will note that in your first letter.”

  “Our priest is indisposed, I regret to say.”

  “Is he ill?”

  “No more than any elderly man. He says the mass and hears the confessions, I assure you.”

  The priest was snoring off last evening’s wine, his mottled red skin the evidence of a life spent inebriated. Béatrice could have written to her superiors in Pau long ago and requested a replacement. But the efficacy of a chapel vicar was far down on her list of priorities. And a new priest could disturb the order of things at Belarac. She would not tolerate the introduction of an unknown male into the world she was crafting here, not now, not yet. The thought, in truth, frightened her.

  “Be that as it may.” Ramón paused a moment, his eyes boring into hers. “If you fail to do as I order, I will see to it that every bishop in Béarn is informed that you preside over this place like a queen yourself, without oversight of a capable priest. I certainly see the benefit in it. Free to lead as you wish with no interference from a man of the cloth. The punishment for such audacity would be quite severe, I imagine. Excommunication, at the least. Or perhaps they would make an example of you—and burn you at the stake.” His words thudded like axe-blows in her ears.

  She opened her mouth but before she could speak he thrust the leather sack in her face.

  “I care not for your reasons and excuses,” he said. “All that matters is your allegiance to my wishes. So?”

  “Yes.” She grasped the sack with both hands to stop her fingers from trembling. “I swear to do as you ask.”

  7

  Autumn, 1487

  Castle Oto, Aragón

  Elena

  Elena’s bare feet made no sound on the stone corridor’s floor. When she rounded the corner she was caught up short by the sight of a thin man holding a half-naked girl by the hair. The girl was crying, crumpled in the pool of her skirts, her bare breasts exposed in the torchlight.

  “What’s this?” Elena’s voice rang out. “Let the poor girl go.”

  The man turned to her, startled. He was dressed more richly than a guard and wore a red leather patch over one eye. His lank black hair spilled down his shoulders.

  “Did you dare to question me?” His words sliced the air, hurtling past her ears like arrows.

  He loosed his grip on the girl’s hair and closed the distance between them. Elena took a step back. Was this the baron himself? Ramón de Oto? She cursed her impulsive tongue and shifted her weight forward, balancing on her toes. He was not as imposing as she had imagined, the baron. But then, she had not seen him since he was a child. Time, it seemed, had not been kind to the man. Perhaps there was a measure of justice in this world after all.

  The slap he gave her resounded with a crack. She staggered back, then righted herself.

  “Speak your name, woman!”

  “I’m Elena, my lord.” She swallowed hard.

  He reacted as if she had administered the slap to him, not the other way round.

  “Do you mock me?” His nostrils flared. “I am the steward, stupid woman, not the baron.”

  The fear drained from her. So this was the new steward, the man who had taken a lance in the eye for Ramón de Oto on some southern battleground. She straightened her shoulders.

  “Why is the steward abusing one of his master’s servants, then?”

  Without speaking he stepped forward again and hit her across the face with the back of his hand. This time he drew blood. She felt it trickle from her lip. Beyond him the servant girl gathered herself and crept away into the shadows.

  A door opened behind her. The steward stared past her shoulder, the imperious smirk vanishing from his face.

  “Can I not have a few days’ peace after my long journey?” The voice was deep and tinged with annoyance.

  “My lord,” the steward said, bowing his head.

  Heavy footsteps sounded in the corridor and a man stepped into her line of sight. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his bearded face marked by prominent cheekbones. His dark brows were drawn together in a frown. His brown eyes ran over the length of her body and settled on her face.

  “What’s this about?”

  “I am Elena, my lord. Sent as a help-mate for the baroness by—”

  “Yes,” he interrupted. “I know who sent you.”

  He turned to the steward. “Beltrán, I will only say it once. This woman is not to be harmed. If any wrong comes to her I shall hear it, and the perpetrator will pay with his life. Is that clear?”

  Beltrán looked from Ramón to Elena and back again. She watched incredulity flicker across his face, followed by a ripple of anger. Slowly he dipped his head in a nod.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Elena regarded the exchange with bafflement. Here she was, confronted by the sight of her ancient enemy, and by some madness he had shape-shifted into her protector. She held her head up, feeling the baron’s eyes upon her, waiting for a flash of recognition to pass across his face. In an instant, she was sure, his lip would curl in a sneer. He would point a finger at her and say: I know who you are.