“I just need a moment, Campeador,”6 Francisco said. “I have to take a piss.”
“OK, but I will stay nearby. Someone has to teach you how to fight.”
The boy got up and walked around the corner. Francisco picked up the stone and started the chant as quietly as he could. “Bekori aneini Elohei—”
The boy continued talking, “My name is Sancho.”
“—Tziddki batzar—”
“I’m from Badajoz, a refugee.”
“—hirchavta li—”
“Who are you talking to?”
“No one. It ... it helps me relax.” Francisco sighed. The pain in his arm seemed to be going away, but now he had to start the chant over. “Bekori aneini Elohei Tziddki batzar hirchavta li choneini u’shema—”
“Are you done yet?”
“No.” Argh. Why did he answer the boy? One word, one word away from being done. “Can you just let me finish?”
Silence.
“Thank you. Bekori aneini Elohei Tziddki batzar hirchavta li choneini u’shema tefillati.” His arm, ribs, bruises, and abrasions were already healed. He took in a deep breath and felt no pain. He stuffed the stone into his boot and walked out of the alley.
“Oy,” Sancho said, “your arm.”
“What arm?”
“The one that was bent.” Sancho looked from one arm to the other. “There is no bend.”
“I know,” Francisco said.
“Where did it go?”
“You must have imagined it.” Francisco started walking away, hoping that Sancho would forget it.
Sancho grabbed his shirt. “I am not like those thugs,” he said. “Tell me, friend, how are you healed?”
Francisco didn’t answer. He turned to walk away.
Quietly, Sancho added, “I heard you speaking Hebrew.”
Francisco stopped.
“I know you are not a Jew,” Sancho said. “You have an accent.”
Francisco turned around. “How would you know?”
Sancho looked down. “Uh, I’ve heard Jews speak it. Haven’t you?”
“Not well enough to know someone has an accent.” Francisco took a step closer to the boy. “And you have an accent. It sounds ... Jewish.”
Sancho shook his head. “I have no accent. I have spoken Castilian all my life and only speak Hebrew at—” His shoulders slumped and he looked at the ground. “Oy.”
“Ha! You are a Jew.” Francisco beamed. “So, what is your real name?”
“Moshe ben Shushan.” He looked up at Francisco. “But tell no one. I have my reasons.” He took a step closer, his hands pressed together in a begging fashion. “My family was killed in the riot in Badajoz two weeks ago, and I fled. I have no idea what life will be like in Toledo, especially for a Jew. Please understand, I have not renounced my faith, but what harm is there in a little name change?”
“There are a lot of Jews here in Toledo. There’s a whole quarter where they like to live. Come on. I’ll show you.” Francisco started to lead him.
The boy who called himself Sancho held him back. “No, no.”
“Why not?”
“I cannot go back to them. Please. I cannot explain.”
Francisco hesitated. What would cause this boy to refuse to return to his own people? But as soon as the thought struck him, he rejected it. No, I know what that’s like. He didn’t want to ask any more questions. Francisco had tried to forget his own reasons for not going back.
Sancho smiled and asked, “Have I your confidence, friend?”
Francisco sighed. I can’t tell Sancho about the stone. Francisco regarded him. Yes, a rich kid and book learned. Pale skin under black hair and eyes wide with a thirst for knowledge. Muscles? Only enough to hold him up. He’d never survive peasant labor. This Sancho looks lost, like he doesn’t know what to do next. He tries to act tough, but he doesn’t have a street-wise wariness about him.
Francisco asked, “How old are you?”
“Fourteen.”
“A little short for fourteen, aren’t you?”
“No. I am not short. You are tall.”
Francisco stuck out his hand. Sancho shook it. Soft skin. Never worked a hard day in his life, but he has a firm grip. There’s hope. “I won’t tell anyone you’re a Jew, but don’t ask me how I heal broken bones.”
Chapter 5
Francisco
Las Largas
Summer, Year of our Lord 1211
459 Days on the Streets
A WEEK LATER, Francisco walked Sancho through the west side of Toledo, until they came to the fountain in the plaza. Even from a distance, the spray from it was refreshing, and it carried with it the scent of fresh produce. A clear voice rang out, “Agua! ¿Quién quiere agua? Agua para calmar su sed!” Water! Who wants water? Water to quench your thirst!
“Hear that?” Francisco asked. “It’s Tío, the water carrier.”
“Will he not ask for coin?” Sancho asked. “The fountain water is free, my friend. I know that much.”
“Ugh. Stay here all day and you’ll see what goes into that fountain. Tío knows me. My only payment is listening to his advice.”
Sancho licked his lips. “I want not for water, my friend, only nourishment.”
“You know, if you’re going to live on the streets, you can’t talk like a noble. People will think you’re carrying coin.” Francisco surveyed the market on the other side of the fountain and said, “Finding good food is not easy. The vendors frown on giving us alms directly. Makes us beg for more they say. But there are ways.” He smirked. “See that one there, the old Saracen?7 The tall one stroking his beard. They call him the Emir. He tends his citrus stand, always swatting flies even when there are none. He gives us no alms to please his peers, but he permits you to steal fruit when he pretends not to look– take only the ones on the corner of that table after he turns around. Watch. He sees us now.”
The Emir’s keen eye was turned on them, but as soon as he saw them looking at him, he glanced away with a sly grin. He took pleasure in the process by searching for minutes on end for the ripest pomegranate, placing it on the table with a flourish, and turning around with an exaggerated yawn and stretch. Francisco nudged Sancho. Sancho walked up, and with dexterity befitting a seasoned pickpocket, palmed the fruit and kept walking. It took Francisco a moment to realize that his apprentice was not going to return. “That back-stabbing crook!” He’s probably enjoying the entire fruit without me. Francisco took off in a run, darting through the crowd, skirting around Tío and his ass, and nearly knocking over a vegetable vendor’s cart.
When Francisco caught up to him, Sancho greeted him with a stained, crooked smile. Sancho offered half of the uneaten pomegranate to Francisco. They both laughed.
“Come on,” Francisco said. “Let’s go help the Emir.”
After they returned to help the Emir close his stall, Francisco caught Uncle Bernat’s sulking form among the fountain gossips.
Francisco grabbed the Emir’s sleeve. “He’s here!”
Without a word, the Emir swung out a cupboard door on his cart to shield Francisco. He waved his lanky arms down the street and in his heavy accent said, “Walk quickly. Run not. To the sword smithy with you.”
Sancho, both bewildered and curious, said, “What?”
Not waiting to explain, Francisco grabbed his collar and led him down the street. “My Uncle Bernat.”
“It has been a year and he is still looking for you?” Sancho looked over his shoulder. He stopped and nodded towards the market center. “Is that him? The one wearing the light brown, hooded tunic like yours?”
“Yes, fool. Don’t stop.” Francisco pulled Sancho onto the adjoining street: Calle de la Sangre, the butcher’s street. After they resumed their escape down the street of blood, he let go of Sancho and explained. “We’ll hide out at La Grande’s smithy.”
“Very well,” Sancho said, trying to keep up with Francisco, “but why is he still chasing you?”
Francisco
said nothing. He quickened his pace.
“That is not to say you are not as strong as an ox and twice as dumb—a good man to have around a farm—but need for strong arms is not enough cause to chase a boy for over a year.”
Sancho slipped in the excrement and pig entrails flowing down the middle of the street. “This is not the place for a good Jewish boy to run.”
Francisco turned up Calle de Santa Úrsula and the stench abated.
“Amigo, you are not answering my question. What does your uncle want?”
“Ah, here we are.” A quick check behind told Francisco they lost his uncle. Francisco stood before the shop, his feet planted apart and arms akimbo, surveying it as if it were a grand monument to El Cid. Sandwiched together with the other businesses in this district—narrow shops below with living quarters above, La Grande’s sword smithy was set apart from the others because of its completely open front. Three stone arches decorated with heavy ironwork led into an alcove with a counter for customers. Above the entrance on a hanging sign were letters made of bent iron welded onto a broadsword: La Grande de Hierro: Swordsmith. No other shops had letters on their signs. He looked at Sancho with pride and held out a hand toward the shop. “Smithy of La Grande, finest swordsmith in all of Toledo. Even she admits it.” Francisco walked in, leaving Sancho dumbfounded on the streets.
“She?” Sancho asked the humid air.
Stepping into the dark shop, Francisco was reminded why they kept the doors and windows open. The heat, mostly escaping out the back of the shop and up the chimney, kept it only slightly cooler than the depths of hell. With his first intake of the shop’s air, the acrid scent of cold-quenched steel bit at his nose and left a tang in the back of his throat. It was not altogether unpleasant. It was industry at work, not the stench of a tannery or the putrid odor of the butcheries or even the inviting aroma of a bakery. This was the flavor of things made of fire and ore, of ingot and anvil. Bread would be gone in a day; leather in ten years; but steel forged well would last a lifetime or longer.
The counter separated him from the real work done in back, where Mateo the apprentice loaded ingots onto a bench, unaware of Francisco. There were no customers. The grindstone beside Mateo stood silent, but further back and behind the partition erected to conceal the guild’s secrets, the bellows slowly inhaled and exhaled. The swordsmith was forging blades.
Mateo was slightly taller, much thinner, and a year older than Francisco. His slim build was almost comical to see working in a smithy, but what he lacked in strength he made up for in endurance and enthusiasm. His oversized and stiff leather apron nearly wrapped completely around his waist, making it difficult for him to bend.
As quietly as he could, Francisco stepped around the counter and sneaked up behind Mateo. The ingots must have been heavy. Mateo’s fingers turned white as he gripped them, and as he laid them on the stone table, he quickly slid his fingers out before the ingot pinched them. Clank! He bent over for the next one. Francisco waited for just the right moment. The bellows inhaled. Francisco crouched, ready to grab his friend around the waist as soon as he let go of the ingot. The bellows exhaled.
“What do you mean by she? Are you saying the swordsmith is a ... girl?”
Clank! Mateo, startled, dropped the ingot too soon. “Ouch!” He waggled his hand to ward off the pain.
Francisco’s shoulders sank.
The bellows stopped. La Grande stepped out from behind the partition. She was a hair shorter than Francisco and twice as wide. Her face, glistening with sweat and soot, seemed to glow red-brown from the forge at her side. In its heat, a lock of black hair had worked loose from its bun and dangled before her nose, flopping about with her every word. The sound of her voice was like the strike of her hammer, sharp and cogent. “I’m no girl. I’m a woman, and you don’t look like no customer.” She sniffed. “You.” She sniffed again. “You smell like a scholar’s boy. You have no business here.” She waved a tong at him. “Away with you.” She retreated to the forge and the bellows began anew.
Sancho’s eyes grew wide. “How did she know?”
Mateo grimaced. “Who are you?” Mateo’s hair was wild, sticking up on the left side like usual. His eyes were wide as if he were perpetually scared or full of wonder, and his ears stuck out a little on each side. Francisco often wondered if it was because Mateo’s eyes and ears lurched forward in search for imperfection. The need for order seemed to drive his work. The perfect apprentice for La Grande, he followed her trail of debris like a sparrow after breadcrumbs, not missing one. He would make a perfect cabbage farmer. There wouldn’t be a weed in a row.
“His name is Sancho,” Francisco said, “new to Toledo; a friend.”
“And you.” Mateo waggled his finger at Francisco. “You were trying to scare me again. I’m going to set a wolf trap for you. Imbecile.”
Francisco bowed with a sweep of his hand. He turned to Sancho to finish the introductions. “And this, Sancho, is Mateo, lifter of heavy ingots and sweeper of dirty floors.”
“A pleasure.” Sancho nodded.
“Mateo,” Francisco continued, “used to be on the streets like us and never fails to tell me to—” He turned toward Mateo, urging a response.
“To return to your family,” Mateo said. “And I mean it. I’ve seen too many die on the streets.” He waggled his finger at Francisco. “And they were smarter than you, country boy.” He smiled. “Now help me with these ingots or La Grande will kick you out.”
They obliged. Placing an ingot on the table, Sancho asked. “How does a woman become a swordsmith?”
“La Grande,” Mateo explained, “was the only child of her father, the greatest swordsmith in all of Christendom. Five blades the King ordered, and only from him. After her mother died giving her birth, her father trained her the best he knew. He died three years ago, and she carried on.”
The bellows stopped. Francisco and Sancho looked at each other. They darted for the door.
From the back, they heard La Grande. “I will not permit Mateo to linger in idle discourse when the bellows are in need of attention.”
“We’re leaving,” Francisco said.
As expected, Mateo bid them farewell with his adage, “Sancho, return to your family.”
Back outside, Francisco stood under La Grande’s sign, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply. A hand roughly pulled him back inside. It was Sancho, white with fear. “Your uncle,” he said, breathless.
“Did he see you?”
Sancho nodded. “He is coming this way.”
Both boys dashed behind the counter, but stopped when La Grande stepped out from behind the partition, holding up a beefy hand. “Ho, now. You have no business back here if you ain’t an apprentice, an’ I have but one of them.”
“My uncle is after me,” Francisco pleaded.
“I care nothing for family squabbles,” she said, crossing her arms. “If you ‘ad problems doing your chores—”
“That’s not it,” Mateo said. “His uncle beat him and he ran from home. He lives on the streets.”
“Well, you know better than anyone here, Mateo, this boy’s better off making amends and returning to his folks.”
“That’s just it,” Mateo said. “His uncle killed Francisco’s brothers.”
She narrowed her eyes and studied Francisco. Her eyes swept him from head to toe and back again. He felt like a bad sword ready to be melted down. He looked over his shoulder. Uncle Bernat was not outside, yet, but Francisco had no idea how far away he was. He turned back to La Grande. Her eyes softened and she unfolded her arms. “Well, we’ll see. I’m a pretty good judge of character, I am. If this man be a killer, he’s headed for a world of hurt. If,” she glared at Francisco, “if you be lying, then I’ll join him in your beating.” She motioned behind her. “Back there with the both of you.”
Francisco and Sancho slipped behind the partition. Francisco stood, shifting his weight from foot to foot. There was a way out the back, but that alley came out fart
her down the street Uncle Bernat was on. The man knew Toledo and could cut Francisco off. He might be doing that right now. Francisco remembered how hard it was to get away from Bernat the first time. Francisco glanced at Sancho. He was holding a sword, checking its balance. “What are you doing?” Francisco asked in a hoarse whisper.
“Defending my friend.”
“Have you ever used one of those?”
Sancho shook his head. An eager grin on his face. “No, but I can point it at things. Grab a sword and join me.”
Francisco shook his head. He shifted his foot and felt the familiar edge of the stone. “I can do no harm.”
They waited.
Footsteps on the wooden entry. They stopped.
“We’re done taking orders for the day.” It was La Grande.
“A little early in the day for that, isn’t it?”
Francisco’s chest tightened.
“We have all we can handle,” she said.
“Where’s the blacksmith?”
“Swordsmith, thank you, and I be she.”
The familiar laugh—that usually meant it would be a light beating, had a pinch of sarcasm and impatience in it. “Yeah, well, I’m looking for a boy. Maybe you seen him. Tall for his age. ‘Bout this tall. Stout limbs, strong back, as ornery as the devil and twice as devious. Took something of mine. A thief. Can’t trust him.”
Silence.
Francisco pressed his hands together and held them to his face as if in prayer. He glanced at the back door. He could outrun Uncle Bernat, but his uncle knew people in Toledo. Eventually, he would catch up with him.
“No,” she answered. “Can’t say I’ve ever seen a boy like that.”
“Now I know you’re lying.” His tone had changed. It was the no-games Friday night beating voice. “I know people, important people, and if the alguazil finds out you’re hiding a thief, then the only iron you’ll be looking at are stocks around your wrists.”
Curiosity vanquished Francisco’s prudence and he pressed his faced against a slit in the partition, and peered through.
La Grande, a full hand’s breadth shorter than Uncle Bernat, didn’t look down, but stared him straight in the eyes. “I also know people,” she said, “like my uncle Señor Pelayo, the alguazil. I visit him once a week, and he’s never mentioned the likes of you.”
The Apprentice Stone (Shadows of Time Book 1) Page 4
