The Promise Page 6

  Rolling the scarlet-topped mushrooms in a length of flax cloth, she tucked them at the bottom of her satchel. When last she stood among these trees she was a girl not ten winters old—a tormented little thing, driven by fear to creep into the darkest woods in search of poison.

  She stood motionless, listening to a woodpecker drill a hole in the trunk of a nearby pine. Maria had taught her how much could be learned by studying trees. Which way the wind blew, what kinds of animals made their homes nearby, if there was water flowing unseen below the roots. How Elena missed those precious days spent in her shadow.

  Maria always told her she was a gift of the mountains, the best gift she’d ever received. And Maria had received many gifts in her lifetime. She had helped untold numbers of babies into the world, had healed countless injuries and illnesses. The mountain people loved her. In return for her services, they gave her wool, sausages, tools, stacks of dry oak kindling, precious packets of sea salt, kegs full of wine. No sooner did a crack open in her roof than it was fixed.

  But all that changed when Father Pizarro arrived and began peddling his one great God, muttering about something called the Devil, hissing to all who would listen that Maria was no healer but a witch.

  Witch.

  How Elena hated that word. Father Pizarro had unleashed it on the most vulnerable people—those whose loved ones had died despite Maria’s help. He whispered to the grieving that Maria was to blame for their losses. And some of them, in their agony, believed him.

  The woodpecker fell silent. Elena turned slowly on her heels, willing herself to move east. The rain was heavy now. Her journey was nearly over. She had just two more stops to make before she entered Castle Oto.

  * * *

  It did not take long to reach the stone cottage where she had spent her early years. The structure stood on a south-facing meadow in the shadow of an oak tree. The tree’s drooping branches disguised the true condition of the place until she was nearly upon it.

  Elena stood on the threshold, gazing around at the wreckage of the home she had shared with Maria. There was no longer a door. Rain poured through the roof. Gaping holes scarred the walls. It looked as if people had been salvaging bits of the place and carrying them away. A squirrel darted out from a shadowy corner and clambered over the rubble into the woods. An abandoned bird’s nest lay on the dirt floor, fragments of cream-colored eggshells scattered around it.

  There was no point indulging in memories here. Dry-eyed, she continued on her way.

  * * *

  When she reached the outskirts of the village where Maria had died, a low rumble of thunder swept down from the white peaks in the north. Raindrops struck her face like needles in the fierce wind. Elena pulled the hood of her cloak low over her forehead and stood under cover of the woods, watching the storm descend.

  Sensibly, the villagers were nowhere to be seen. The cottages were dark, their doors latched and windows shuttered. The church was shuttered, too, though its wide oak door rattled in the wind, creaking and banging as if the latch were loose. The rope affixed to the church bell whipped around like a writhing snake. Elena stood in the shadow of a pine tree, watching the action of the rope and the wind conspire to swing the bell back and forth. Soon the sound of faint, discordant chimes drifted over the village.

  Her mind darted back to the night she had entered that church for the first and only time. The night of Maria’s death. What she had done must have angered the gods, but they had not seen fit to punish her. Not yet.

  Suddenly the church door opened and the priest emerged to fiddle with the latch. He closed the door experimentally. The rattling continued. He opened it again. His body had softened, his shoulders sloped under his black robes. He was an old man now. Yet still he lived.

  Elena’s hand went to the dagger at her waist. She took a step forward.

  How easy it would be to exact her revenge. She could slip behind the church, sidle along the edge of it to the stairs, and strike. She slid the dagger from its sheath and took another step.

  Who would see her? The storm boiled in the sky, the villagers were ensconced in their cottages. She would deal her death blow swiftly. Though the priest had not planned a merciful death for Maria, she would show mercy in delivering his. For Elena had no interest in torture. All she wanted was to extinguish him, watch his blood drain out and the light in his eyes ebb away. And then, perhaps, the pain of her memories would be extinguished as well.

  At that moment, a braying mule cantered around the back of the church, its hoofs clattering on the cobblestones in the square. The frayed end of a rope dangled from its bridle. Clearly it had been spooked by the storm and somehow tugged free of its bonds.

  Elena’s pounding heart slowed.

  The moment of opportunity was gone. No villager would let a mule run loose, no matter how dangerous the storm. Sure enough, a man wearing nothing but a flax shirt and a pair of wool leggings burst from his cottage and made for the mule.

  The priest caught sight of the man and called out to him. The villager ignored the priest and tended to his mule, calming the animal. Waving his arms and shouting, the priest moved down the church steps with his robes flapping in the wind. This time the villager shouted something in return, gesturing to his mule and then to the church. The priest seemed satisfied with the man’s response and retreated inside.

  Elena knew Father Pizarro had never found his way into the hearts of the people. They tolerated him because they had no choice. They sat through his sermons, they carved wooden statues of the Virgin Mary and slung them around their mules’ necks, and still they prayed to the old gods.

  He was nothing like Brother Arros, whose kindness and compassion made him a favorite of guests at the monastery, whose essential goodness radiated from him like the rays of the sun. No, Father Pizarro was a different sort of religious man, whose contempt for the old ways would always make him an outsider, someone not to be trusted.

  She sank to her knees, the bitter wind searing her face. Somehow, in the space of a day, she had become a hollow, scooped-out shell. The smiling woman who had lain beside Xabi all winter in a snug stone cabin was gone, floating away in a current of swirling air, as weightless as a ghost.

  All that was left of her was bone and skin, pressing east through the sodden forest, moving farther and farther away from everything that was good in this world.

  Her mouth set in a grim line, Elena sheathed her blade and forced herself to stand.

  It was time to fulfill her promise.

  18

  Autumn, 1484

  Afternoon was giving way to evening. The clouds parted to reveal the setting sun, its light lengthening the shadows in the woods. But then clouds pressed low again, bringing with them frosty gusts of wind and sleet.

  Elena was close to Castle Oto now. She strode along animal tracks that paralleled the main trail, as was her habit. It was never wise to travel in the open. She would rather meet her end in a bear’s jaws than under a bandit’s blade.

  She approached a clearing and a ramshackle cluster of dwellings inhabited by serfs who were bound to the house of Oto. They were desperately poor, the serfs, somehow scratching a living from the earth with meager harvests of barley, carrots, and turnips. Those who lived near the great houses of Aragón were fated to be miserable, for they never escaped their lord’s attention.

  And the house of Oto had always been brutal to its serfs. The women were never free of harassment. Often the more attractive daughters of these families were sent to the castle, ostensibly as servants, fated to be concubines for the baron and his men.

  The wind died away. It was replaced by an eerie quiet. Usually at dusk the jays and crows kept up a constant racket, and snow finches could be counted on to trill warning calls at a person’s approach. And yet the birds had gone silent in these woods.

  Elena slowed her pace, uneasy, and caught sight of a movement overhead.

  A great bird winged its way down from the sky into the clearing. It looked ve
ry much like a griffon vulture. Why would such a bird alight in a barley field? Elena crept forward to the edge of the woods.

  The field had been scythed, the grain harvested—quite recently by the looks of the place. Ragged stubble rose from the dark earth. And in the center of the field, not one but three griffon vultures feasted on a carcass.

  Elena’s eyes narrowed. No wonder the blue jays and crows had gone mute; they’d been frightened off by the giant raptors. The griffon vultures clustered together, tearing at their prey with great stabs of their powerful beaks. What was it they had there? A deer, perhaps? The serfs were not skilled hunters. Even if they had managed to kill a deer, they would never leave the carcass to scavengers.

  She moved through the woods along the edge of the field, nearing the cluster of rude huts where the serfs lived. Then she saw three horses bearing Oto livery tethered to a tree nearby. Gruff voices shouted from within one of the huts, followed by a high-pitched scream. A sick feeling took hold of Elena’s stomach.

  With sudden certainty, she knew the carcass in the field was no deer.

  Elena’s hand went to her dagger. Clutching the handle, she wrestled with the urge to act, to help those pitiful souls inside the cottage who were likely being beaten or raped at this very moment.

  But what could she do? Three horses meant three armed men. She would become their victim, too, as soon as she made her presence known. The parchment letter in her satchel would mean nothing to them. She would be dispatched as easily as a rabbit if she tried to defend these people.

  No, if she wanted to live, if she wanted to someday return to her winter valley and find comfort in Xabi’s arms, she would have to ignore the savagery before her.

  Elena turned away and melted into the woods again, desperate to escape before another shriek pierced the air. But she slipped and skidded on the wet leaves, her trembling body unable to do as her mind commanded. Finally she forced herself to stop, steadying herself against the smooth, cool trunk of a beech, waiting until her breath returned to normal.

  She removed the sheath from her waist and strapped it around her thigh. The cold handle of the dagger pressing against her flesh was reassuring.

  Then she squared her shoulders and set off once more, fanning the flames of hatred that always glowed within her heart. She ruminated on the rage she felt for that priest, for the barons of Oto, for all armed men who abused their power. And soon her strides came quicker, the fear loosened its grip, and a surge of confidence coursed through her veins.

  Thank the gods, she thought.

  For without courage, she was doomed.

  19

  Autumn, 1484

  Elena stared up the hill through icy drizzle that was rapidly turning into snow. Castle Oto loomed above her on the hilltop. Beyond it, serrated peaks thrust upward like knife blades into the darkening sky. Her throat was dry, though she had just drunk water from the stream that rushed through this copse of oaks. The sight before her had drained every drop of moisture from her mouth.

  In the gathering twilight, she emerged from the woods and trudged up the grassy hill. The Oto banner fluttered from stone towers that soared above her, impossibly tall. Torches burned atop the high walls surrounding the castle, sending long tongues of fire into the air. A guard on the parapets caught sight of Elena moving through the grass and shouted to a comrade below. When she arrived at the gates, a helmeted head peered out from the small square window cut into the center of one of the massive wooden doors.

  “What’s your business here?” a gruff voice enquired.

  “My name is Elena and I’ve a letter for the baron from Brother Johan Arros of San Juan de la Peña.”

  “A letter, eh?” The guard stared her up and down. “Show me your face,” he ordered.

  Elena stiffened, but did his bidding and pushed the hood of her cloak away from her forehead. “I am to be help-mate to Lady Marguerite,” she said. “The lady expects me.”

  “Is that so?” He eyed her a moment longer and slammed the window shut.

  The heavy door creaked open. “In you come, then.”

  She forced herself to cross the threshold.

  The guard reached out a meaty hand and tugged at the bow strung over her shoulder. He took hold of her quiver and gave it a rough shake. “You’re well-armed for a woman. But you’ll have to leave your weapons here.”

  “They’re for hunting,” she protested. “And protecting myself from the beasts of the forest.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t make the rules.”

  Reluctantly, Elena handed over her bow and quiver.

  “What else have you got?” He stepped closer. Elena smelled ale and onions on his breath. “What’s in that satchel?”

  “Medicines and other things for the lady. The monks have my promise to deliver them to her unmolested.”

  He snorted. “Unmolested? Wouldn’t want to disappoint the monks, I suppose. Well, on your way then. Hurry along. It’s nearly supper-time in the castle. If you’re lucky, they’ll feed you before they feed the hounds.”

  * * *

  Walking up the winding lane toward the keep, past the tiny cottages that housed castle dwellers who weren’t lucky enough to have noble blood, Elena comforted herself with the thought that some of them were of mountain stock themselves. Some had family she had tended to in the hills and valleys beyond these walls. Perhaps she would even see a familiar face.

  But darkness was descending, a wet snow was falling, and no one was about. The cottages were already shuttered against the night. Muted voices emanated from inside their walls. As she crossed a wide courtyard and approached the doors to the great hall of the castle, a deep, hollow barking within made her flinch. Soon another hound joined in, then another. From the sound of it, they were big hounds. She dragged her boots forward, though every muscle in her body screamed at her to turn and run.

  Elena climbed the broad stone steps to the doors. An iron knocker in the shape of a bear’s head was affixed to the oak just above eye level. She stared at it for a long moment, the courage she had mustered in the woods leaking out of her with each breath she took.

  Slowly, slowly, she reached for the knocker, her arm heavy as stone.

  Then she let her arm drop and whirled around. She would not do it. Promises be damned. This was madness.

  And then there was the sound of an iron bolt being flung back, the creak of the massive door opening behind her.

  Gulping for breath, trembling, she turned around again.

  20

  Autumn, 1484

  The guard on the other side of the door dispatched a servant girl to lead Elena to Lady Marguerite’s chambers. Elena edged passed the drooling hounds, trying to steady her breath, desperate to gather the shreds of her courage again. She kept her head down, following the girl through a maze of corridors and stairways that had no discernible logic. Torches mounted on the walls barely cast enough light to see more than a few steps ahead. After a final climb up a twisting set of stairs, they arrived at a tall door fitted with decorative iron hardware and a protruding lock.

  Inside, despite the orange flames shimmering in a cavernous fireplace, the air was cold. Red woolen rugs worked with Moorish designs were spread over the floor. A four-poster bed hung with heavy drapes stood against one wall, and a low oak chest squatted against the wall opposite. An iron candelabra fitted with eight beeswax candles sat on a round table that held a collection of carved wooden boxes. The tall windows along the exterior wall were fitted with wooden shutters that trembled from the force of the wind.

  Lady Marguerite was seated in a leather-backed armchair before the hearth, wrapped in furs and woolen blankets. She turned her head, told the servant girl to wait outside. Then she trained her gaze on Elena.

  “Come, approach.”

  Elena walked forward a few paces.

  “So you are the help-mate Brother Arros has sent to me.” Lady Marguerite spoke in a low voice. Her pale green eyes with their long black lashes were unnerving. />
  Elena nodded.

  “Did he tell you the nature of my predicament?”

  “Yes.”

  “If God answers my prayers, your job will be easily done. But if He does not—?”

  The words took a long time to slip from Elena’s throat. “I will carry out the plan as Brother Arros asked me to do. I’ve promised him that.”

  “Good. Perhaps, if God is merciful, nothing shall have to be done.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “You must speak of this to no one.” Lady Marguerite leaned forward and lowered her voice to a whisper. “The castle is like a beehive. All the bees fly about gathering gossip, for it is honey to them.”

  “And who is their queen?”

  Lady Marguerite gave a short laugh. “There is no queen. All the honey goes to the steward. And when he is home, the baron.”

  “What about your husband?”

  “Ramón is never here long enough to bother with gossip,” Lady Marguerite said shortly.

  Wind rattled the shutters and sent a draft into the room, snuffing out two of the candles on the round table. Elena jumped at the sound, her eyes darting to the windows.

  “The north wind sweeps down from the mountains without end,” Lady Marguerite said. “Come winter, there is no respite from the noise of it, nor the cold.”

  “You’ve a fine hearth and a crackling fire, my lady. Furs and woolens to wrap yourself in. I suppose that helps.” It was difficult for Elena to scrape the sneer from her voice, but she managed.

  Lady Marguerite stared at her coolly, then threw back the furs and blankets and heaved herself up from the chair.

  Elena stared back. The woman was fine-boned and much younger than she had expected. Dark coppery hair peeked out from under the hem of her silk head-covering. Her dress was red, made of some thick fabric that had a dull sheen, and the sleeves of her blouse were criss-crossed with tiny black stitches laid out in an elaborate pattern. How her tiny frame supported the enormous belly bulging under her skirts was anyone’s guess.