by Carla Kelly
Hanneke sneezed over and over from the dust, but no one gave her a handkerchief. Her dress served that purpose. When they stopped for a break, no one provided a discreet blanket. She was forced to squat by her mule, tears of shame leaving tracks down her cheeks as she made water. She wanted something to drink, but knew better than to ask. She would only have been ignored, because that was the rule of the day, perhaps for the rest of her life. She had provided a terrible kindness to a suffering enemy, and this was her reward.
The endless dust churned up by horses and mules made every breath a struggle. She took increasingly shallow breaths until she grew lightheaded, and clung to Blanca to stay in the saddle.
When she thought she could not remain upright another moment, the caravan stopped. Soldiers dismounted. Santiago helped Engracia to the ground and Juana clucked around her, shading her with a blanket. Bendicio spoke to Santiago, but he shook his head before the priest finished speaking. Hanneke looked away, ashamed. She ran her finger around her dusty lips, feeling each crack and crusty spot. She wanted to touch her back, but she could not raise her arms.
Pablo slid off his mule and started back toward her, looking around to see if Santiago was watching.
“No. Don’t,” she warned.
He came to her quickly, and helped her off the mule. She leaned on him and he helped her sit down.
“I have no water, but there is this,” he said, his voice low. He handed her a dried grape. “If you put roll it around in your mouth, it might help.”
She did as he said. Gradually the grape became moist. She gave Pablo a gentle nudge. “Better go. He will beat you.”
He shook his head. “I have been beaten before. I do not care.”
“I care. Go now, my true knight.”
Somehow she mounted her mule again. The dried grape had moistened her lips and she was grateful. She sat there as the soldiers and muleteers moved out, then took her place in the rear.
Her hand went to her cheek, where Santiago had slapped her. Pablo, I too have been beaten, and I don’t care either, she thought. The idea was almost liberating, although she could never have explained that to a rational being.
Spain, why is your sun so merciless? she asked the landscape as her brains began to cook. On a better day, she might have appreciated the great plain of Castile, high and windy, heavy with the fragrance of late summer grass and harvest. Here on the valley floor, grass bent to the wind.
Closing her mind to the threshing floor, Hanneke watched women cutting and stacking the grain, working efficiently. They bundled the sheaves and leaned them upright at the end of each row.
She watched with idle interest as Antonio rode toward the harvesters. He leaned out of the saddle and spoke to one of the women. When he left them, he carried something. Hanneke closed her eyes against the heat.
She heard a horse approaching the mule train and opened her eyes, ready to look away. Antonio rode beside her. She remembered the look in his eyes when he tracked her steps around the camp, and leaned away from him, fearful.
“Here.” He handed her a straw hat with a wide brim. “It cost me an Almohad’s dagger.”
When she did not take it, fearing a trap, he set it in her lap. “Put it on, señora, before you become silly with the heat.”
“My back hurts too much to raise my arms,” she said. “Thank you anyway for your kindness.” She wished he would go away.
He took the hat from her lap and placed it on her head, leaning toward her until their knees touched, to tie it under her chin.
“The harvesters had no extra water to share, or I would have brought you some.”
“I don’t expect any,” she said. “Please don’t put yourself in danger on my behalf.”
He looked toward Santiago, who watched them. “He doesn’t own me but he gave me an order last night. I… I am truly sorry for what happened.”
They rode together in silence, Hanneke terrified that Santiago might blame her for Antonio’s attendance upon her. Please go, she thought. To her relief, he nodded to her, put spurs to his horse, and left her alone in the dust once more.
Camp that night was a subdued affair, with no teasing or joking, as she had heard on other nights. After another soul-sapping squat beside her mule, she found a spot away from everyone and sat down, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, trying to relieve the pain in her back.
“Here.”
She looked up in surprise. She had not expected any food, least of all a plate from Santiago himself. “Thank you,” she said. “I didn’t ask for food, so please don’t blame anyone.”
What could he say to that? She looked down at the plate of meat, pleasantly surprised that he had bothered, then deeply aware that she had not one single expectation left in her whole body. Not one. The girl from the Netherlands who had whined about having no choice seemed foolish and far away.
After he left, she tried to eat, but all she really wanted was water or maybe a little wine. She set the uneaten food on the ground and went a little distance from the mules, never looking at anyone. A few swipes of the ground cleared away the pebbles. She sat there until dark, then managed to remove her hat and pull her surcoat over her head. She gasped from the pain, then rolled the garment and tucked it under her neck as she lay down.
There. That wasn’t too bad. She arranged her dress as best she could, then set the precious straw hat beside her. She knew she should say her nightly prayers, but she had nothing to say to the Lord God Almighty, Great Ruler of the Universe, anyway.
Hanneke woke at first light. The straw hat was there, but someone had covered her with a light cloak. She sniffed the fabric, wondering why Santiago had bothered. Still, it was nice of him.
The uneaten food was gone, but there was a leather wineskin in its place. She grabbed it, grateful beyond measure. Looking around to make sure it didn’t belong to anyone, she drank deep, then sighed. She glanced up to see Santiago watching her. She set the wineskin away from her, afraid she had drunk more than allowed.
Her back didn’t hurt so much, so she smoothed her hair down, wishing for a comb. Putting on her surcoat was agony, so she quickly followed it with the hat, counting one long pain better than two separate ones. She touched her cheek, happy to find it not so hot this morning. All in all, she couldn’t complain. She thought a moment. “I am La Dama de Cosas Pequeñas,” she said softly, “The Lady of Small Things.”
Chapter Sixteen
They passed more harvesters this day, and even found a stream. She waited until everyone finished, troubling no one. She had spent a pleasant day thinking of Vlissingen and Christmas, and Mama when she was still healthy. She looked around for other sights think about when she ran out of pleasant Low Country memories.
The great plain of Castile stretched before her, but the land seemed less harsh. Villages grouped near stone castles, the air no longer filled with dust. She admired the windmills, smiling because they creaked the same as windmills at home. She missed the lap of water on Vlissingen’s docks. Water would be good.
The hostility toward her seemed to lessen from the muleteers. One of them even picked up her hat when she dropped it while fanning herself. She thanked him, she, the queen of all she surveyed from the dusty rear of the dowry train.
As the sky darkened, they came at last to a river, wide and flowing leisurely in that way of water in late summer. She noticed that the soldiers sat up straighter.
“It is the Tajo,” one of the muleteers said, speaking in Hanneke’s direction, and almost looking at her. “The day after tomorrow, Toledo.”
The bank was steep in spots, but there were shallow places to cross. If she fell off her mule, she could swim, so it didn’t matter. Maybe she could stand in the shade of the trees for a while, if they camped here. At least there was water to drink, all she wanted.
She stayed close to the river while tents went up a
mong the trees. The horsemen and muleteers took their animals down to the water, then hobbled them to graze above the bank. Hanneke sat and watched the animals, pleased to see her white mule cropping grass.
Pablo joined her for the first time in two days, sitting close to her. She put her arm around his shoulders and hugged him. “Why are you here?” she asked, keeping her voice low.
“I wanted to be,” he said simply. He handed her a pear. “Antonio gave this to me for you.”
“How kind,” she said, and ate it with pleasure. “Pablo, do you think you could find me some soap?”
“Soap?”
“Yes, my true knight. What a shame to waste all this water.”
He grinned. “I can steal some from Engracia.”
“Be careful,” she warned.
He was careful. “It’s all I could find quickly,” he said in apology when he returned, out of breath.
She took the sliver from him, inclining her head in his direction. “A lady never had a more noble knight.”
The muleteers were busy about their cooking fires. Santiago and Antonio stood together in the distance, pointing toward the hills to the north. Hanneke walked to the water’s edge and took off her shoes, the sand so soft and inviting.
A short walk along the bank led to a quiet bend in the river, where she was out of sight of everyone. The Tajo had carved a sandy stretch of beach, with the high bank above. The water barely rippled. Minnows nibbled at her toes, which made her laugh.
She removed her surcoat and carried it into the water, dipping the bloody thing, then scouring it with handfuls of sand. She rinsed, scrubbed some more, then rinsed again, spreading the garment on a hot boulder a short distance above the water where the trees met the sand.
In the water again, she untied her bodice and let her dress fall to her knees. Balancing against the current, she stepped out of her dress and washed it, too.
She debated a long moment about her camisa. The dried blood from the threshing floor had turned a rusty brown and she wanted to remove what stains she could. She glanced in the direction of the camp, hidden by the trees and the bank, wondering if she dared. She reminded herself that no one cared enough to look for her, and peeled off her camisa. Naked now, she hurried into the deeper water and scrubbed the filthy garment. After it went onto a patch of grass, she hurried back into the river.
The water was warm and surprisingly deep. She sank to her shoulders after only a few steps, then swam to the middle of the river, clutching the soap. She ducked her head under and washed her hair. Her face was next and then her soft parts. A handful of sand sufficed for the less tender places. She sniffed and pronounced herself good, or at least better.
She put her sunburned face in the water and blew bubbles, then floated on her back, admiring the setting sun through the leaves overhead. After another rinse, she swam to shore, looking for a spot where she could sit on a rock with her body partly out of the water.
To her shock, Santiago sat on the bank above her, his sword across his lap, his helmet by his side. His bare feet dangled over the edge.
“You should have told someone where you were going,” he called, looking down at her.
She nearly covered her breasts with her arms, but saw the folly of that. He knew what she looked like. “No one talks to me, señor,” she said, wishing he would go away.
He did not. Hanneke came quickly out of the water. She dried herself with her dress then put on her camisa, ignoring him. She walked down the little beach until she was out of his sight. Her surcoat was nearly dry on the boulder. She reached for it, then froze.
“Señora.”
A man stood in the deepening shadow close to the water. He was tall, but not as tall as Santiago, and dressed like the Almohad warriors she had seen only days before. She knew – just how, escaped her – that this was El Ghalib.
Her eyes on him, she slowly took the surcoat in her arms, holding it in front of her as puny protection.
“Señora,” he said again. He came closer. She did not move.
He was close enough now for her to see indigo tattoos on his chin. Something else about him caught and held her. She had seen that face before, where, she could not say.
“Do not scream.”
“I had not thought of screaming,” she said truthfully.
He smiled at her words and squatted a little distance from her, but out of Santiago’s sight. “You know who I am?” he asked in excellent Castilian.
She sat down, too. What was the point in running? “El Ghalib?”
“Yussef El Ghalib. You are the wife of my worst enemy.”
There was an awkward silence; this was no ordinary conversation. El Ghalib fingered the pebbles at his feet. “I do not wish to appear indelicate, señora, but I could not help noticing a bruise on your back.”
She nearly asked him what else he could not help noticing, but she bit back sharp words. She saw sorrow in his eyes, and she had no desire, oddly enough, to wound this man further.
“It doesn’t hurt much.”
“Again, I do not wish to appear indelicate, but I was watching your camp when…when… Santiago treated you poorly.” He looked down at the pebbles. “I followed you from the funeral pyre.”
She gasped, then looked around, unwilling to be overheard. “Why didn’t you kill me? You saw what I did.”
“I saw.”
He was silent, struggling with some emotion Hanneke did not understand. Impulsively, she touched his hand.
He took her fingers in his and kissed her palm. “Thank you.”
He wept. Hanneke averted her eyes to allow him some privacy in his grief, then turned for a long look. Suddenly, she knew. She moved closer.
“Jawhara?”
“My sister.” He took a moment to collect himself. “She thought she would be my spy. She insisted. We had heard about a dowry, and a forthcoming visit to Valladolid. With another’s help, she presented herself to the wife of Manolo Gonzalez as a servant.”
Another’s help. “Felipe,” she said. “Engracia’s brother? What is he to you?”
He waved away her questions. “It is of no importance to you, wife of my enemy.” He seemed to rethink his words; perhaps he thought them rude. “Let me say that the border between Moslem and Christian is sometimes fluid.”
Hanneke wondered how far she would get if she ran. She reminded herself that she had no expectations, and settled her mind. “I hope you will kill me quickly,” she said, not taking her eyes from his.
“You do not understand, señora,” he said. “I thank you. I arrived in that clearing just before you, but I could not bring myself to kill her, not my sister. I knew she needed to die as soon as possible. My sorrow is that you were punished for my weakness.”
Hanneke bowed her head, surprisingly aware of her strength, she who counted the least to the man sitting on the bank above the Tajo. “I would do it again. No woman should have suffered the way she suffered.”
“I saw that, too,” he said quietly, and leaned his head against hers for a brief moment.
They moved away when Santiago’s voice came from upriver. “Ana! Come back. Now.”
“I come, husband,” she called. “I must go, El Ghalib, if you will let me.”
“I will, but one moment, please.”
He lifted a chain from around his neck and held it out to her. “Take this necklace. If you ever have need, send this to me through that boy who worships you. You will find a way.” He smiled. “You are resourceful and brave.”
“My father said that about me once,” she told him. “I didn’t believe him.”
“You should. It is true.”
She took the necklace, admired the delicate links, and put it over her head.
“Very good. Farewell, señora. We may meet again or not. We will leave it in Allah’s hands.” He gestured gracef
ully with his hand to his head, his chest, and out. “I am going to the bank. If I can surprise your husband, I will kill him. If not, who knows? Remember this: He is my enemy.”
Chapter Seventeen
He was gone before Hanneke could say anything, not that a man bent on bloodshed would have listened; she knew that much. She ran back to the spot where she had last seen Santiago.
He still sat there, his sword in his lap. She opened her mouth to warn him at the same moment he wrenched his head around and leaped to his feet, his sword raised above his head like a staff. After the initial blow, he grasped his sword by the grip and parried El Ghalib’s advance, stepping back to scoop on his helmet and slam down the visor.
Hanneke ran into the water and waded out far enough to see around the curving bank. The soldiers in the distance were busy at their campfires. She shouted, but no one looked up. Why should they? She was nothing.
She struggled back to shore, watching in horror as El Ghalib struck a massive blow that glanced off Santiago’s helmet before it struck dirt and bounced from the Almohad’s grasp. Her husband dropped to his knees, the helmet off kilter so he could not see out of the eye openings.
El Ghalib’s sword fell to a small ledge below them, but he could not find it. He looked back at Santiago, who regained his feet, even though he was now sightless, his sword still in his hand, but moving oddly, because he had no idea where his enemy stood.
“Oh, please, no,” Hanneke begged, clasping her hands in supplication. “Please stop. Don’t kill him.”
El Ghalib turned to stare at her.
“You of all people,” he said. “You?”
He was right. She could say nothing and Santiago would die. The same compassion that governed her actions with Jawhara took over her heart, lessons in kindness learned from her mother. “No,” she mouthed.
With a great scream, El Ghalib grabbed the back of Santiago’s tunic and threw him into the river.
