That no man to Roy Diaz give shelter now, take heed
And if one give him shelter, let him know in very deed
In their fear of King Alfonso had they done even so.
Francisco stopped reading. “El Cid2 fought with the Moors? Is that why he was banished?”
“He fought with them and against them as did many of our kings, but he was not banished for that.”
“So then why was he banished?”
“Read on. You’ll see. He regains his honor and defeats the Moors.”
“He defeats them? But we are still fighting them.”
“Read on, son.”
Francisco read,
“And the Cid forced not his entrance, neither for weal nor woe
Durst they open it unto him. Loudly his men did call.”
Someone banged on the door. Francisco jumped. It was not a soft rap, but came from someone with meaty fists who was enraged the door stood in his way. Francisco and Papa looked at each other. No one came this late, unless it was the manor lord wanting a healing, and he was announced quietly by the steward.
Slowly, Papa rose, walked to the door. He spoke to it. “I cannot help you.”
“It’s me,” came the answer. The sound of Uncle Bernat’s voice made Francisco want to crawl under the table—not the actions of a proud twelve-year-old.
Papa didn’t unlatch the door. “I have not the stone.”
“Artal, for the love of all the saints, open the door. It’s been a long, hard ride.”
Papa opened it and stepped back. Uncle Bernat entered. His long hair stuck out in wild tangles from under his cap. His clothes, usually clean, were worn and stained. “Why not let me keep it safe?” These were the first words out of his mouth and this was the first time he had come to visit since Mama died, not a ‘Brother, I miss you,’ or even a ‘How fare you?’ His first words concerned the healing stone and his getting it.
“It is a curse,” Papa said. “Only a fool desires it.”
“Oh, is it now?” He placed a hand on Papa’s shoulder. “Then I am willing to share the burden.”
Papa flung his hand off. “You would use it for coin.”
Bernat shrugged. He plopped down onto the nearest chair and tipped back until his shoulders touched the wall. “Brother, is that so evil?”
“You inherited everything but the stone and still you want more?”
Uncle Bernat tilted forward, almost lurching off the chair. “Inherited everything? You believe father had much after squandering it his entire life? Huh? He did nothing, nothing with it but to suck it dry while he frittered away the stone’s powers on the poor like you do. That stone is worth far more than the pittance I received. Look at you: his first-born living as a peasant. Grandpa would be ashamed.”
“So, you would let the poor perish while you demand a ransom for healing?”
Uncle Bernat scoffed. “You would let the rich perish?” He dismissed Papa with a wave. “You understand not the way of commerce.”
“You would show the world,” Papa said, “and they would take it. Then what will you have?”
No answer.
“It stays where it came from,” Papa said, “like the stone it is.”
“Ah, so you buried it.”
“You’ll never find it.”
Bernat smiled. “No, but you will. Someday, brother, someone you love will be in pain.” He looked across at Francisco.
Artal stepped in between them. “He is your nephew, your own flesh. You would not harm him.”
Bernat raised his hands in surrender. “I would think of no such thing.” He stood up. “But he’s a boy. Accidents follow them like starving dogs.” He lowered his eyes and walked out the door. “Accidents like the ones that befell your other children.”
A shiver like death ran up Francisco’s spine and gripped his heart.
“Someday,” Uncle Bernat said, looking over his shoulder, “someday you will need it.”
Papa closed the door and latched it.
Chapter 2
Francisco
Las Largas
Spring, Year of our Lord 1209
A YEAR WITHOUT THE STONE had not been kind to Artal. Francisco watched his father age rapidly. He began to look like a kinder, shorter Uncle Bernat. The house was a mess. It was late in the season, and Artal hadn’t even plowed his own strip when the other peasants were busy planting. One week after the quarter moon, he pulled himself outside and tried to get it all done in two days.
Francisco handled the inside chores and prepared thatch for a hole in the roof. Mice had made a nest and ruined a section on the south side. It was an hour past sunset before he realized how late it was and that Papa hadn’t returned. With no lantern to guide him, Francisco went out to check on Papa. Under the light of a waxing gibbous moon, Francisco found him half way out to the tree line. Papa had crawled across the field. He was bleeding from his mouth, and he pawed at Francisco with a limp hand. He managed to gasp the words, “Cry not for me, my son. Without death, there is no heaven.”
“No, Papa!” He searched for words, it felt like a dream. He noticed something covering Papa’s jerkin, dark and sticky mud—no, blood! “The oxen? I’ll get the healing stone.”
With a surprising burst of energy, Papa gripped his arm. “It’s under, it’s under… No, no time.”
“I can get it.”
“Not in time.” Papa winced. “Use the stone for others. Heal as many as you—” He winced again, and it took longer to recover this time. “Heal as many as you can without payment and never, never let anyone know how you heal.”
“I know where the stone is, Papa. Stay still.” Francisco rushed to the house, retrieved a spade, and returned to the spot where he thought his father buried it. Ten minutes later and two feet down, he had not found it. He dug four more holes before the shovel struck the little box that held it.
He rushed back to his father and pressed the cold stone to Papa’s arm. Francisco took in a sharp breath. Papa’s eyes were wide and unmoving. His skin was as chilled as the stone. Francisco recited the verse. Nothing happened. Francisco slowly removed his hand from the stone. In the dim white-blue lunar light, Papa’s eyes stared up at him vacant.
Papa’s wake was held in the family home like Mama’s. Neighbors and strangers filled the modest house, but no one from their own family came. Uncle Bernat was Papa’s only surviving relative, and Francisco was glad he didn’t show. Even Lady of the Manor Ines was present. Her husband, Lord Domingo, was away on the King’s business. Lady Ines had a kind but stern face, powdered to give it a pale complexion. Francisco’s mother, having served in the manor’s kitchen, told him that Lady Ines had weekly bleedings to achieve that desirable pallor. The lady had visited their home regularly when Mama was still alive. She was mostly kind and fair to both free peasant and serf, and everyone knew when Lord Domingo was away, her word was law.
Not knowing what was going to happen, Francisco took the healing stone from its hiding place in the larder and slipped it into a small pouch tied to his belt.
At the wake, it seemed everyone’s obligation was to make Francisco feel good with kind but empty words. One large woman with round cheeks, dabbing her tears said, “He was a good man, your father.” Then, patting him on the shoulder, she repeated, “A good man.”
I don’t like the word was.
“I would not have recovered from the fire if it weren’t for your father,” a balding man told Francisco. He stood next to his two girls. “My girls would never have been born. I’m sure the angels are glad your father is in heaven.”
I wish they would send him back. They don’t need him.
Some even walked over to Papa’s body, which was propped up on a chair at the table, and spoke with him, telling him jokes, as was the tradition. Every visitor brought food or something that reminded them of Papa: a mug for the wine he did not drink, or a box to stand on because he was short. Vellito presented to Papa’s body a rake that he borrowed years before. Ev
eryone laughed. The more people came, the lonelier Francisco felt. The air was stuffy, and it was too noisy. They were in his house, and they didn’t belong.
Eventually the well-wishers departed, and Francisco was left with the Hospitallers, the local priest Father Martín, and Lady Ines with her maid and two guards. The Hospitallers were three women wearing black dresses with a large gray cross sewn on front, and they busied themselves with cleaning up the guests’ mess. The quiet felt worse, even emptier than before the wake started.
Father Martín was a thin man, with sunken cheeks, bright brown eyes, and a smile that made Francisco wish Father Martín was his uncle instead of Bernat. He took Francisco’s hand and said. “Most people believe your father should be considered a saint. He helped so many by performing miracles. Even one miracle that cost your mother her—” He faltered, cleared his throat, and started anew. “Humiliation and poverty for the priesthood are voluntary services to God and sources of virtue. We have chosen that life. For you, these burdens have been thrust upon you, young Francisco, not by your own will. You stand on a knife’s edge. Either you can blame God or rely on him. Blaming God brings a bitterness that poisons the soul.”
Lady Ines approached and cleared her throat. “As for your father’s obligations, your father, being a freeman, was not—”
The door, which had been closed to keep out the flies, swung open and hit the wall behind it. Both guards put their hands to their swords. Uncle Bernat stepped in with a breeze of fresh beer. “Food,” he declared. His eyes shifted from the table to Francisco, to the guards, to Father Martín, and to Lady Ines. “Father and my lady.” He bowed. “I am the boy’s uncle and only living relative. I have before suffered through this inheritance routine and know it well. I claim full rights to my brother’s possessions.”
“And obligations,” Lady Ines said.
Uncle Bernat’s lip curled as if he tasted food that had suddenly spoiled. “He has debts?”
“No,” she said.
Uncle Bernat smiled. “Good.” His eyes flashed upon Francisco. “I want to talk to my nephew.”
Lady Ines smiled and said, “He has obligations.”
“My nephew?” He laughed. “Oh, of course. You can’t mean my brother.” He placed a hand on Papa’s shoulder and shook him. “He has been relieved of this world’s obligations.”
“Yes, but his next of kin inherits the obligations.” Lady Ines nodded at Francisco.
“Oh.” Uncle Bernat took a deep breath. “What is it?”
“Your brother, being a freeman, was not bound to this land as a serf, but he did provide rent in the form of common tillage.”
Uncle Bernat nodded. “Yes, yes, and he kept a little on the side for trade, which I handled.”
She turned to the guards and commanded, “Shut the door.” To Uncle Bernat, she continued in a delicate tone. “Your brother was obligated to more than the standard tillage.” She spread out her hands indicating the house. “For this estate and a parcel of his own lands to the woods, he gave three calls a month for his services.” She regarded Uncle Bernat with a stern evaluation. “Can you satisfy these obligations?”
“I have no great need for this hovel,” Uncle Bernat said and slapped Francisco on the shoulder. “But my nephew is a strong lad and nearly of age. He has managed the fields with Artal quite well. I’ll make sure he continues.” He leaned forward and matched her delicate tone. “As for the obligation of which you speak, I would want nothing more than to serve nobility. I know how to heal like he did. The gift runs in our family, but I am more willing than he was to serve those with means to pay for the service.”
Lady Ines drew back, tilted her head, and narrowed her eyes. She took in a deep breath and announced, “Very well. We shall give it three months. If your word proves true, then we shall continue.”
“Now,” Uncle Bernat said, “if I may have that word with my nephew. He has gone through so much of late.” He patted Francisco’s hand. Francisco withdrew it. He felt like a caged animal.
Father Martín squeezed Francisco’s shoulder and stood up. “I’ll be right there with the Hospitallers.” He stepped to the other side of the room, affording no true privacy.
Lady Ines gave the customary farewells and departed the home with her retinue.
Uncle Bernat took a seat, leaned over to Francisco, and whispered in his ear, “It comes to me now.” He reached around and snatched Francisco’s pouch. The twine holding the burlap sack to his belt snapped before Francisco could stop him.
“Shh.” Uncle Bernat looked over at the priest, who had his back turned. Francisco felt his uncle’s free hand grip his arm tightly. “We wouldn’t want to make a fuss and wake the dead, now would we?” He rubbed the burlap fabric between thumb and fingers, feeling the smooth healing stone underneath. He smiled. “It comes to me now.”
Spring, Year of our Lord 1210
The last year on the manor was one Francisco tried to forget. Uncle Bernat sold Papa’s books within the first week. Although the lease tenure was in Francisco’s name, Uncle Bernat forced him to work the land as a slave. Running away would be easy, but where would Francisco go? How would he make a living for himself? He never took up a trade. People would ask questions like, “Who is your lord?” More importantly, he did not want to leave the stone in his uncle’s hands. It was the only object of value left by his parents.
Yet getting the stone proved harder than Francisco expected. Uncle Bernat was a vicious rogue, a master in the art of deception and concealment. He kept the stone with him except when he slept or drank. In the first night with the stone, Uncle Bernat drained four mugs before he realized the stone kept him from getting drunk. He cursed the stone as a “foul tool of demonic temperance,” and almost threw it across the room before he realized his folly.
After that night, he kept the stone hidden and forced Francisco to create the gray paste that fed the stone. Francisco used to help Papa make the paste and only he knew the ritual. When Uncle Bernat returned from healing someone, he would show Francisco the stone only if it had hungry marks on it. The marks were black and looked like a mason had chiseled them into the stone with a fine tool, and the stone would not heal if it had them. After a few minutes with the gray paste on the stone, the marks would fill in smooth without a trace. Each mark signified a different element needed, but Francisco mixed all the elements together just in case: finely ground charcoal, granite rock dust, rusted iron shavings, cuprite or copper, sparkling mispickel, kaolinite, water and salt. Papa had trained Francisco how to collect and grind each of the elements.
Uncle Bernat didn’t stay at Las Largas manor for long, but he added it to his route of properties to visit. Once or twice a week, he showed up without warning and in a foul mood, looking for an excuse to beat Francisco and always finding one. Francisco told steward Vellito and the manor lord about the beatings. Although they listened to Francisco with compassion and confronted his uncle, Uncle Bernat managed to talk is way out of it. Francisco could show no marks from the beatings. His uncle used the stone to heal him, forcing him down, pressing the stone against him, and barking out the Hebrew verse in words so filled with spite and spittle such that Francisco wondered how it worked at all. Wasn’t the charm supposed to break if he did harm? Francisco had grown stronger over the last year—strong enough to overpower his uncle—and he feared if he didn’t act soon, Uncle Bernat would kill him like he did Francisco’s other brothers and sister.
It took an entire year before Uncle Bernat let his guard slip.
On a Tuesday afternoon, after the bell rang for the ninth hour, Uncle Bernat burst through the door to find Francisco napping. This would usually spark a tirade of recriminations and beatings that would end with a forced healing and threats of more if Francisco spoke of it. Not this time. Uncle Bernat’s good humor came from a deal with a new group of merchants called a guild, and when he started drinking, he invited Francisco to join him. They sat at the table with mugs in hand. Francisco only sipped at his bee
r. Uncle Bernat droned on about his scheme with the guild; all the while Francisco was mindful of the pouch with the stone that hung his uncle’s waist.
“Did your papa tell you about your great-grandfather?” Uncle Bernat asked. “He was in the pay of the King of Leon. Alfonso the Third he was. Heh? Never told you? He was too ashamed, then. Too ashamed to tell you we used to be rich. Too ashamed to tell you our father squandered it. The King of Leon, he wanted Grandpa nearby, just in case. He never found out how Grandpa healed, just wanted him close. My father though, the fool, didn’t want to risk people finding out, so when your great-grandpa died, my father spent his life hiding it from the world and his own kin. The knave.” Bernat spat. “Not for me. Use it while you got it, I always say. That goes for you too.”
“Use what I have?”
Uncle Bernat exploded with a gruff laugh. “No, fool. I use you, while I got you. Now enough drink. Go empty the barn. You let the crap get too high.”
As Francisco walked out the door, Bernat laughed until it turned into a coughing fit. His uncle didn’t use the stone to heal himself unless he had to. It would sober him up for days, no matter how much beer he drank. Francisco told himself if he ever got the stone, he would heal others like his father did, but unlike his father, he would only heal good people, not men like Uncle Bernat. People like him deserved no mercy.
The Apprentice Stone (Shadows of Time Book 1) Page 2
