Madelon looked at him curiously. There was something odd in his tone when he mentioned that name. She watched his ringers roving over a jagged scar on one temple. She had noticed it before, but knew it would be tactless to ask how he got it. "You are remarkably well informed, Paco." "It's my job to know what goes on in Castile. Don Alfonso has ordered me to find out what allies his brother has among the Moors and then seek them out and persuade them to join us or destroy them."
"Kill them ... ?"
Paco's eyes narrowed at the disbelief in her voice. "I too have grown up, little sister. I no longer play at war. Do you know what these Moorish dogs do with their captives? The men are sold as galley slaves. They die a slow death, chained to an oar they will not be free of until the day they die and their bodies are flung overboard. The women and children are sold in slave markets. Christian women fetch a good price on the auction block. Those that don't kill themselves when they are first taken, and many do, are bought for harems, where they are subjected to God only knows what kind of indignities. I've only known of one woman being found by her relatives after she'd been captured and that was the wife of one of my lieutenants. She was among a band of Moors we captured near the border, a year after her disappearance. She was twenty and she looked forty. She'd been sold four times and tortured beyond belief until she no longer cared who her master was or what was done to her, so long as she had enough food to eat. When she recognized her husband and saw in his eyes what she had become, she killed herself."
"How awful." Madelon shivered, despite the heat. "Don Sancho must be mad to enlist the aid of such terrible people."
"Greed turns men into animals," Paco told her gravely. "Ride on and keep close to me. If we are attacked, ride as if the devil was after you and stop for nothing."
Madelon tried to forget her brother's words and the horsemen dogging their rear whenever she glanced back over her' shoulder. Since leaving Salamanca, where they had stayed for the first night after her departure from the convent, the countryside had gradually grown more beautiful. On one side of them was a huge grassy plain full of wild flowers and just visible on the far horizon, a large flock of sheep grazing on bare bills. To the west was Moorish Castile, the border marked by a towering range of mountains. Shielding her eyes to study them, Madelon was seized with a sudden sense of foreboding at the sight of the formidable peaks. Beyond lay the kingdoms of Toledo, Badajoz, Valencia and to the far south, Seville, with their strange beliefs and barbaric customs. Slave ships with their human cargoes bound for the slave markets, seraglios crowded with scantily-clad women awaiting the commands of their lords and masters, those swarthy-faced men who considered them mere chattels, to be sold again at will or disposed of in any way they chose. As Madelon dragged her eyes away from the tall peaks she found herself thinking her father must have had Moorish blood in him.
Spurring her horse to catch up with her brother, Madelon marvelled at the hue of colours everywhere. The bright red and white flowers against the green blanket of tall trees, falling away to paler yellow-green slopes where the sheep grazed like little black beetles. The brown mountains growing darker as they soared upwards to pierce a cloudless blue sky. She had watched the sun set the previous evening from the plateau and caught her breath in wonder as the sky was set on fire by the dying sun.
Captain Rodriguez galloping up to her brother, rudely cut short her pleasant thoughts. He was pointing ahead to the heavy cloud of smoke which hung over the far end of the valley they were just entering.
Paco swung round, issuing orders too swift for Madelon to catch. Motioning his squire to stay with the mules and luggage, he said tersely, "Stay here, there may be trouble ahead." "What kind of trouble?" Madelon began, but he was already riding away from her, taking with him all the soldiers, with the exception of four left to guard the women. Scarcely had they disappeared from sight over the hill, than one of Madelon's women let out a terrified scream.
The rebuke which rose to Madelon's lips was never uttered. Horsemen were converging on them from all sides. The sunlight flashed on long, curved swords and filled the hearts of the onlookers with a cold, numbing fear.
"Moors, my lady, what can we do?" Dona Elvira, the youngest of Madelon's maids cried out.
"After the soldiers - hurry - we'll be safe with them," Madelon shouted and spurred her horse into a gallop.
The thunder of hooves grew louder behind them and by the time the small party rode into the burning village, their pursuers were uncomfortably close. Wide-eyed, Madelon gazed at the bodies strewn on the ground before the drab; stone hovels, many of which were burning fiercely. With rising panic she noticed that the only women who had been killed were old or feeble and as such, were unrewarding prospects for the slave markets to which the other poor souls were undoubtedly heading.
"This way," Paco came out of the smoke and haze in front of her, gesticulating wildly for her to turn about. "It's a trap, there's no way out. They knew this would attract us and like a fool I fell for it."
"We can't go back," one of the women sobbed. "Dear heaven, we are all going to be killed." Paco took one look at the frightened feces confronting him and then reached forward and grabbed Madelon's bridle. Shouting to his men to follow, he urged his horse up a rocky slope, cursing profusely as it stumbled and almost toppled him from the saddle. Behind him Captain Rodriguez was shouting at the women to hurry and deploying the soldiers in a long fine to cover their rear.
Paco and Madelon reached the top of the slope and were about to descend the other side when, behind them, came the ominous sound of steel clashing against steel and the screaming of women.
"Ride on," Paco ordered. "I must go back."
"No. If you stay, I do too."
Madelon swung her horse about to follow him back, but her brother's hand fastened over her arm and held her fast. The Moors had reached the village and the slopes below them were covered with fighting men. Madelon caught a glimpse of Captain Rodriguez, his face streaked with blood, battling with four of his men against an overwhelming number of Moors who were trying to reach the women. She shuddered and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, Elvira was lying prostrate on the ground with several bearded men tearing away her clothing. Another girl, who had managed to run a few yards, was overpowered and dragged back to where the Moors were examining their captives. Captain Rodriguez lay in a pool of blood, obviously dead.
With a moan, Madelon slumped forward over the saddle, near to fainting. Paco gripped her by the hair and jerked her upright and the pain restored her fading senses as he knew it would.
"Ride, Madelon. No matter what happens - ride."
She did not need to be told a second time. The wind whipped away her cloak and sent it swirling to the ground behind her as she galloped down the slope. Paco kept abreast with her, urging her on as one horseman, then two, appeared on the hill behind them. As they circled around and came past the entrance to the valley, half a dozen more rode out to meet them. Following Paco's frantic signals, Madelon wheeled her horse away towards the distant mountains. She rode with fear in her heart such as she had never known before. Not even the beating inflicted by her father had caused her to tremble so violently. She was shaking from head to toe and scarcely able to stay upright in the saddle. How she kept a tight hold on the reins or endured the tortuous ride she never knew.
No matter how mercilessly they spurred their horses or doubled back on their tracks in an effort to lose their pursuers, the Moors stayed doggedly behind them, growing closer with every mile. So too were the mountains ahead of them. It was in Madelon's mind they were being deliberately driven in this direction and once there, how many more of the cruel barbarians would be waiting for them.
Ahead of her Paco's horse stumbled, throwing him heavily to the ground. Staggering to his feet he pulled out his sword, waving her to ride on, but she went back calling to him urgently. "We can ride together, quickly ..."
"The animal's too tired to carry both of us ... get out of here..."
He was sent sprawling to the ground by the weight of the two Moors who flung themselves on him from their horses. Madelon screamed as she saw one of them plunge a dagger into her brother's body and then she too, was grabbed by numerous hands and dragged from the saddle. She kicked and bit and was cuffed so violently on the side of the head, she lost consciousness...
She was brought back to her senses by the unpleasant sensation of someone's hands roaming in a crude fashion over her body. She was lying on a grassy spot at the foot of the mountains, surrounded at a distance by her Moorish captors. All their eyes to the last man were focused on the newest acquisition to what had so far been a profitable day and envying their leader who was examining her with great relish.
Madelon gave a scream as bony ringers fastened in the silk of her gown and tore it open, exposing her naked to the waist. Instinctively she tried to cover herself, but another blow to the head sent her crashing to the ground where she lay too stunned to move again or protest as the Moor ran his calloused hands over her breasts and shoulders, muttering to his men as he did so and evoking roars of laughter.
With a grunt of satisfaction he stood up, motioning to one man to remain with Madelon and issued orders to the remainder which sent them hurrying to their horses. Weakly Madelon sat up, trying to gather together the remnants of her bodice about her as best she could and looking around for Paco. When the Moors returned she had no doubt she would be on her way to a slave market. The thought made her feel sick and feint. To her right a weak voice called her name.
"Madelon, are you all right? I saw what that swine did ... Oh, God, if only I had a sword ..."
Madelon flung herself down beside her brother with a glad cry but the relief on her face turned to dismay as she saw his tunic was soaked with blood. The attack on him had been so savage, the surcoat of mail had served as little or no protection and he had received several wounds.
"Escape while you can," Paco urged.
"I won't leave you."
Somehow Madelon managed to tear away his tunic and fashion it into rough bandages which she packed under the blood-stained coat of mail as best she could. Her heart almost failed her as she looked into Paco's pain-ravaged face. He was too weak to move far and she would not go without him, but if they did not escape and reach a doctor quickly, he would surely die and she would become some man's bought slave. She checked the sob which rose to her lips, determined to show the bravery he expected from her, but realizing he had lapsed into unconsciousness, she slipped down in a pathetic huddle beside him, crying bitterly.
CHAPTER TWO
A muffled groan roused Madelon from near insensibility. Dazedly she pulled herself upright, wincing as a pain shot through her head and the bright sunlight seared her vision momentarily blinding her. Paco lay unconscious at her side - for a moment she had thought it had been he who moaned. And then she saw the Moor who had been left to guard her was sprawled on the ground and another man, enveloped from head to toe in a flowing white burnous similar to the ones worn by her captors, was-rising to his feet. At the sound, slight though it was, the man spun around, his dagger raised. Beneath the shadow of his hood, Madelon glimpsed a sunburnt face and glittering pale green eyes which immediately betrayed the fact that he was no Moor. He laid a finger against his lips, warning her to be silent at the same time motioning to the second man slowly creeping up behind the leader of the Moors, who stood with his back to them, watching for the return of his men.
It was over in an instant and Madelon realized they had been rescued, but even as she opened her mouth to question her rescuers, her eyes fell on the two servants who had iust come into view leading several horses. They were Moors. She and Paco were still prisoners. Desperately she looked about her for something to defend herself and her wounded brother. Half buried in the ground a few feet away lay a curved dagger. She pounced on it and stood over Paco's body, the weapon held high in the air, ready to strike the first man who came near enough.
"Put that down, we mean you no harm."
The man with the green eyes tossed aside his cloak. Beneath he wore a pair of hide breeches and a dark-coloured shirt. Over this was a tunic which had a huge eagle embroidered on it. His blond hair was bleached almost white by the sun. He was no Moor, Madelon thought, then why were those men with him? He sounded sincere enough, but she kept a tight hold on the knife just the same.
"Who are you? If you mean us no harm why do you travel in the company of those murdering devils?" She nodded towards the Moors.
The second man, having disposed of his victim, came across to join his companion. From beneath the burnous emerged a giant of a man with flaming red hair and a beard to match. The eyes which swept over Madelon were bright with amusement and made her colour hotly and clutch more tightly at her torn bodice.
"By all the saints, we have a firebrand here. Valentin is right, gracious lady. If we meant to harm you we would not be keeping our distance this way. Come now, stand aside and let us see if we can help your husband."
"He's my brother, and neither of you is going to lay a finger on him until I know who you are."
She swept the hair back from her face with a defiant gesture that brought a soft whistle of admiration from the red-headed man, as her bodice slipped away from milk-white shoulders. His companion said nothing and his gaze, although it never moved from Madelon's face, was unreadable. She did not notice the way he was gradually sidling closer. '
"Allow me to introduce us. My friend is Valentin Maratin de Aguilas, quite a nice sort of fellow really," the giant said with a smile which she supposed was meant to vanquish her fears. "I am Rodrigo Diaz de Vivar ..."
A soft cry broke from Madelon's lips as her fast rising hopes were dashed to pieces by his words. This was the man Paco had spoken of with such venom in his voice ... the one the Moors called 'the Lord'. These men were Castilians. As much her enemies and her brother's as the Moors had been. Driven almost out of her mind by fear she acted without thinking and threw herself forward meaning to plunge the dagger into the heart of the man before her, but she was suddenly caught in a grip of steel and the weapon wrenched from her grasp. Her wrists were imprisoned behind her back by Valentin Maratin despite her frantic struggles and when she continued to fight, ignoring his warning to be still, he wound his hand in her loose hair and jerked her head back cruelly.
"Be still."
Madelon cried out in pain and instantly obeyed.
"That is no way to treat the poor girl," Rodrigo Diaz reproved, though he made no move to help her. He stood for a long while studying the sobbing, dishevelled girl whose long, blonde hair had fallen forward over her shoulders to cover her nakedness almost as effectively as a dress would have done, then he dropped on one knee beside the wounded Paco. Madelon heard him mutter a string of oaths and thinking the worst she tried to break free of the man restraining her, but the last of her strength was gone. Sensing her thoughts, Rodrigo Diaz looked up and shook his head.
"No, he isn't dead, but he'd prefer to die than have me help hun."
"You know him?" his friend demanded His voice sounded harsh and impatient.
"One of Alfonso's men - Paco del Rivas y Montevides. I killed his father in combat last month."
Madelon's legs gave way beneath her and she would have fallen but for the support of the man behind her. So that was how her father had met his death. Paco had told her no details and she had asked for none, she did not want to remember a man who hated her. Rodrigo turned and stared at her thoughtfully.
"You say you are his sister. I didn't know he had one."
"I -- I have been away from home for a long time."
Rodrigo threw her a puzzled look, but she was too exhausted to answer any further questions and he seemed to sense this.
"Get him on to a horse and let's get away from here before the others come back," Valentin Maratin said. Madelon found herself abruptly released. Brushing past her he stooped to pick up his cloak and then bent over her brother and wrapped it a
round him. "If he doesn't get attention he'll be dead by nightfall," he remarked calmly. "Yusuf's camp is the nearest" Madelon suddenly found a reserve of energy and jumped in front of him, thrusting away the hands he stretched out to lift Paco.
"Where are you taking us? Who is Yusuf?"
"A friend of mine."
"A Moor?" There was a hysterical note in her voice and the two men exchanged glances.
"Yes. He has a doctor in his camp. Your brother will receive the best possible attention and when he's well you can both resume your journey," Valentin Maratin answered.
Once again the sincerity in his voice tempted Madelon to trust him, but the appearance of the two Moors at her elbow made her bend more protectingly over her brother.
Valentin Maratin uttered a sharp command in Arabic to his swarthy companions, who nodded silently and fell back. Madelon's eyes followed them apprehensively. She still had visions of herself on an auction block.
"Get up," Valentin ordered Madelon. "You can come with us or stay, the choice is yours. You should fetch a good price in the slave market with that golden hair. Some rich merchant will probably buy you for his harem and if you behave yourself, you have the looks to become his chief concubine."
"Dona Madelon, be sensible, for your brother's sake as well as your own," Rodrigo Diaz said gently.
When Madelon did not move, the man before her gave a shrug of his shoulders and turned away. "Let the little fool stay where she is." "No - please - help us."
It took the last of Madelon's courage to force the words through her stiff lips. Even as she said them she was afraid of what she had done. With a relieved sigh Rodrigo passed his friend the cloak he bad been wearing. Valentin Maratin raised Madelon to her feet and supporting her with one hand, as she was trembling so violently she could not stand by herself, he fastened the cloak around her, tacking her loose hair into the cowl, which he pulled well forward over her tear-streaked , face.
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