She turned on her heel and stormed away. Thus, the unhappy day began.
As soon as the tent was packed away and the wagon loaded and secured, the much-diminished party moved on. They accompanied Dag and the wagon a short way along the track, and arranged a place to meet later in the day before turning aside to take up the trail they had abandoned the previous evening.
The ground was more rough and rocky than Cait remembered—or perhaps it was the coating of frost which made every stone, leaf, branch, and twig stand out in sharp relief. The path was much steeper, too, and as they climbed higher and ever higher, the wind began to grow stronger and more raw, whipping the horses’ manes and tails.
The tracks of the fleeing Moors led up over the curving spine of a bare rock ridge; with sour disappointment growing in her breast, Cait began to suspect that the bandits had disappeared into the mountains beyond—a suspicion quickly confirmed when the party scrambled up an incline of scree and abruptly found themselves gazing down into a rocky defile through which snaked a gray stream. And across the divide—the mountains. Cait looked at the daunting slopes covered in a thick tangle of scrub-oak, hazel, and small, stunted pines, and her heart sank.
She turned in the saddle and looked down the way they had come. Far below, she could see the narrow trail as it wound along the lower shoulders of the foothills. She did not see the wagon, but reckoned it was down there somewhere.
“We will rest here a moment,” called Rognvald. “Svein and I will ride to the bend—” he pointed along the top of the ridge, “and see if we can find a way ahead.”
They rode off and the others dismounted to stand close to their mounts for warmth. Cait pulled her cloak more tightly around her to keep the wind out and stood staring bleakly at the soaring slopes beyond the canyon. The three knights stood talking together, and Cait decided that it was time she made herself better acquainted with those remaining in her service.
The men stopped talking as she joined them, and turned expectantly. “Please,” she said, “do not stop on my account. I did not mean to interrupt.”
“My lady,” said Yngvar, “we were just remarking how winter comes early to the mountains.”
“It seems winter has begun,” Cait agreed, adding, “Alethea does not even have a cloak.”
The men exchanged uneasy glances. “Is it like this in your country?” the one called Rodrigo asked, indicating the mountains.
“There are mountains in Scotland,” Cait told him. “But only low hills where my family lives. Our lands are near the sea, and winters are often harsh.”
“My family owns land near Bilbao—also near the sea,” the knight told her. “That means we share the same sea, you and I.” He smiled, and Cait realized he was trying to cheer her.
“I am sorry for the death of your friends,” she said. “Thadeus, Ricardo, Hernando, and Emari.” The names she knew, but had no idea which name belonged to which knight. “If not for me, they would still be alive.”
The knight lowered his head; Cait saw him swallow down his grief. “I will miss them, it is true,” he replied evenly. “But they were men of valor, and freely sworn. They would not hold you to blame, nor do I.”
“Even so, they did not deserve to die like that,” said the one called Paulo. “It is a disgrace for a knight to die without a sword in his hand.”
“Only the worst coward would cut down a man who cannot defend himself,” Yngvar said. “A man of honor would never do such a low thing.”
A great sadness swept over Cait as she listened to the men talk. She pulled the heavy wool cloak more tightly around her throat and looked toward the mountains. The higher peaks were lost in mist which appeared to be thickening; tendrils of fog oozed down the slopes, like sinuous fingers, slowly reaching and stretching, searching out the low places, filling them, and flowing silently on. The wind blew in fitful gusts, whistling over the bare rocks of the ridge, and she could smell snow in the air.
“Oh, Alethea,” she murmured to herself, “I am so sorry.” She closed her eyes and prayed God to send his angels to protect the young woman from the killing cold, no less than from the hateful abuse of her heathen captors.
A short while later, they heard the sound of horses and looked to see Rognvald and Svein returning. As they dismounted, the others gathered around to hear their report. “There is a marker at the edge of the stream down there,” Rognvald told them. “That is where they crossed.”
“A marker?” said Cait.
“A heap of stones, my lady,” replied Svein.
“But who would—” she began, and then the answer came to her. “Abu?”
Svein nodded. “We think he is marking out the way for us.”
“Show me,” said Cait, swinging back into the saddle.
“It is not far,” said Rognvald. “But we have a decision to make.”
Something in his tone gave her to know that he was talking about her. “Yes?”
“The day is growing foul. I think a storm is coming.”
“We will find what shelter we can along the way. I am not giving up the search because of a little wind and rain.”
“I am not suggesting we give up the search,” Rognvald replied, his voice growing tight with exasperation. “But there is no need for all of us to grow wet and miserable with it. You could go back down and wait with Dag at the wagon. By the time you join him, he will have reached the waiting place and will have a fire going.”
“You can sit and warm yourself by the fire,” Cait told him. “I am going to find my sister.”
“Then we move on.” Rognvald motioned to the others to mount their horses, and the party continued.
Halfway down the slope, the rain started. It was not long before Cait felt the cold wet begin to seep into her cloak. Before they reached the valley floor she was chilled to the bone and wishing she had not dismissed Rognvald’s offer so hastily. But now, having rejected the suggestion, she was determined not to allow him the satisfaction of proving her wrong. So she put all thoughts of warmth and comfort behind her and pulled the hood of her damp cloak lower over her head to keep the rain out of her face.
The valley was shallow and did little to slow the wind gusting down from the mountains. They came to the marker—a pile of stones at the edge of the stream; on the opposite side was another—this one in the rough shape of an arrowhead pointing upstream. They rode in the direction indicated by the marker, following along the gray stream as it wound its way around the large rocks and boulders which had fallen from the slopes above. After a while the rain turned to sleet, and they stopped in the shelter of some young pines to eat a little dried meat, but the trees offered so little protection from the stinging, wind-driven pellets of ice that they quickly decided to take to their saddles again before the horses grew too cold, and their sweaty coats began to freeze.
As the day wore on, Cait’s hopes of quickly rescuing Alethea began to dwindle; they were briefly revived when another marker was found and, a short distance beyond it, the remains of a small campfire in a bend in the valley where the stream pooled. The Moors had stopped there—to water the horses and prepare a meal, no doubt—but aside from a small heap of soggy ashes and unburnt ends of branches, there was nothing to see.
Rognvald examined the tracks leading from the campsite, and concluded that the bandits no longer feared pursuit.
“How do you know?” wondered Cait. One set of water-filled hoofprints looked very like another, and these were no different from any she had seen so far.
“The gait of the horses tells the tale,” replied Rodrigo. “The riders are in no great hurry. See here,” he pointed to a series of moon-shaped tracks pressed deep in the mud, “see how the leading edge of each hoof-print is scuffed—”
“I see.” Cait looked more closely. “They look smudged.”
“The horses are tired,” the Spanish knight told her. “They are ambling—dragging their feet, yes?” He made a slow, flicking motion with his hand. “That means the riders are no l
onger pushing them.”
“It is good for us,” said Svein. “They do not know we are chasing them.”
“With luck,” said Rodrigo, “we may soon catch sight of them up ahead.” He indicated the ridge wall which formed the end of the valley. “We will be able to see into the next valley from up there.”
The trail led around the edge of the pool; the tracks in the rain-sodden bank were now easy to follow, and Cait began to feel they were making real progress at last. However, the ridge was further away than it first appeared, and the rise far more steep. By the time they reached the bottom of the ridgewall, daylight had begun to fade. Although the sleet had stopped, the wind was growing more fierce. Rognvald halted the party and, with a glance at the sky, said, “We are losing the light. It is time to turn back.”
The words struck Cait like a blow. Her first reaction was to defy him, to challenge his judgment, to contradict his command. In her heart she knew he was right, however, and besides, she was cold and hungry, and no longer had it in her to fight futile battles with either men or the elements. Still, for Alethea’s sake, she asked, “Might we go just a little further?”
“It is no use. Even if we gain the top, we will not be able to see anything in the dark. We must go back now if we are to meet Dag before nightfall.”
That was the end of it. As before, they marked the place so they could find it the next day and turning to the high hills to the west of the pool, rode away. The sky had grown dark by the time they gained the wagon trail; the deep-rutted track was treacherous in the dark, so they were forced to dismount and cross the undulating hills on foot—which meant a cold slog along rocky, water-filled furrows.
They saw the glint of Dag’s fire from a hilltop long before they reached the place. Cait watched the glimmering of flame as it grew slowly larger, step by step. Her fingers, stiff on the reins of her horse, were numb and her toes stung with the cold; she imagined stretching her feet before a blazing fire, clutching a steaming bowl of porridge between her hands, and feeling the blessed heat warm her frozen bones.
This reverie proved so pleasant, she imagined sleeping in a dry bed heaped with furs in a room warmed with burning braziers, and the delicious feeling of fur against her skin—then realized with a start that she was imagining her chamber at home in Caithness. How many times, she wondered, had she slept in that room in just that way?
Dag had the wagon unhitched and a small store of firewood collected by the time they reached the camp. Despite his throbbing head, he had spent the short span between midday and dusk doing what he could to set up the camp, and they were grateful for it. Indeed, the prospect of warming themselves by the fire so cheered the knights that, with wild whoops and ecstatic cries, they raced down the last slope to the picket line Dag had strung between the trees beside the trail; they hurried through unsaddling and grooming the horses—rubbing them down with handfuls of dry straw before watering them and tying on the feedbags. That chore finished, they hastened to thaw their freezing hands and feet before the flames.
After they had warmed themselves awhile, Rognvald said, “We will need more firewood tonight. See what you can find.”
While the others moved off in search of more wood, Cait, Dag, and Rognvald set about making a supper of boiled salt pork with beans and hard bread. It was ready by the time the knights returned, and the childlike abandon with which they gave themselves to their food made Cait smile. “They are just overgrown boys,” she observed as she and Rognvald followed them to the bright circle of warmth and light.
“It is good they should enjoy a dry night out of the wind and rain,” the knight replied. “It will be the last we see for a while.”
Cait glanced at him for an explanation.
“Tomorrow we must abandon the wagon,” he told her. “I had hoped we would be able to give Dag another day or two longer to recover, but the Moors are fleeing into the mountains. If we are to have any hope of catching them, we cannot return to the wagon each night.”
“Do you think it will be very many nights?”
“In truth, I hoped we would get sight of them today, and the matter would have been decided.” He paused, and then as if thinking aloud, said, “We shall take with us as much food and fodder as we can carry, but the tents, poles, and irons, and all the rest will have to stay behind.” His expression became apologetic, and Cait realized he meant the chests of extra clothes and personal belongings.
“If that is how it must be,” she replied, steeling herself for the privation ahead, “so be it. We will catch them. We will get Thea back.”
“Never doubt it.”
TWENTY-SIX
“I AM CARLO de la Coruña, magistrate and governor of this fine and prosperous town,” said the man. He made a flourish in the air with his hand, removed his fine red cap and bowed deeply. “On behalf of the worthy citizens of Palencia, I welcome you and your excellent company, and may I wish you a most enjoyable stay.”
The knight took one look at the chubby, round-shouldered fellow in his peculiar hat, and decided that he was an absurdity likely to cause problems if not strenuously avoided. “Good day to you, magistrate,” he replied stiffly. “As you can see, we are in need of food and lodging. I will thank you to arrange it.”
The magistrate puffed out his cheeks. “Well…” he began to protest, but thought better of it, and said, “Of course, my lord, if that is what you wish. It will be my pleasure.” Turning, he summoned his deputy to his side. “Grieco! Where are you? Come here, Grieco. I want you to take word to Master Hernando at the inn. Tell him I am sending very important guests to stay with him. Tell him—” Breaking off, he turned once more to the newcomers and said, “If you please, my lord, may I know who I have the pleasure of welcoming?”
“I am Renaud de Bracineaux, Master and Grand Commander of the Knights Templar of Jerusalem,” he replied. “And this,” he indicated the fair-haired, thin-faced man on horseback beside him, “is my companion Baron Félix d’Anjou. Also with us is Bertrano, Archbishop of Santiago de Compostela; unfortunately, friend Bertrano is indisposed and cannot speak to you now. I want rooms for three. The rest of my men will lodge at the monastery.” Turning his arid gaze to the soggy, windblown street, he shivered in the autumn chill. “You do have a monastery in this…” he hesitated, “this place, do you not? And an inn?”
“But of course, my lord,” answered Governor Carlo proudly. “We have a very fine monastery. It has long been renowned for—”
“Good,” said de Bracineaux decisively. “You can show us where to find it.” He called Gislebert to attend them. “The magistrate will lead you to the monastery. Lodge the men and then come to us at the inn.”
Turning back to Carlo, the Templar said, “Come now, governor, my men have ridden far today and are in want of a hot meal and beds. Be quick about it, and you will find it worth your while.”
Governor Carlo stared in astonished indignation. Who did these men think they were to order him about so? Even the king was more gracious to his subjects than these arrogant saddle-polishers. Well, if they wanted him to lead them to the monastery he would do it. But it would be the last service he would perform for them. After that, they would pay for what they received. Moreover, as they imagined themselves emperors of vast domain, they would pay royally. The thought suffused his face with a glow of magisterial satisfaction. Carlo smiled, bowed, and led the heavy footed Gislebert away.
“Simpletons,” muttered the Templar, “all of them—complete and utter simpletons.”
“Come now, de Bracineaux. That is overharsh,” said d’Anjou. “It is a substantial enough town and we have seen far worse in recent days. I think we may well find some amusement here.”
“We will not have time to amuse ourselves,” de Bracineaux growled. “The moment we find this priest Matthias, we will be on our way.”
“Have a heart, de Bracineaux,” sniffed the baron diffidently. “We have spent the last three days slopping through mud up to our fetlocks, and I demand a few
decent nights’ sleep in a bed that does not float.”
“We shall see,” grunted the Templar commander. “First we find the priest.”
“The miserable pisspot of a priest can wait,” corrected d’Anjou placidly. “First we find the inn.”
De Bracineaux allowed himself to be persuaded. He, too, was sick of the damp and filth, and the prospect of a hot meal, dry clothes, and a jug of mulled wine melted his resolve. “Very well. Two nights,” he agreed. “Have one of the men bring up the wagon.”
They proceeded down the crooked main street of the town to the inn where young Grieco was waiting with the innkeeper, a balding man in a big shirt with baggy sleeves and a greasy linen cloth tied around the bulge in his middle. “Welcome! Welcome, my friends!” he said, running forward to take the reins of the commander’s horse. “Please, come in. Eat, drink, and take your ease.” Looking past the two riders to the wagon, he said, “I see you have a lady with you. Let me assure you she will be most comfortable. I will have my wife prepare a special bath for her.”
“Take no trouble,” the Templar told him curtly. “It is not a woman.”
As he spoke, the wagon rolled creaking to a halt behind them; the driver climbed down and went to the back where he removed the board and allowed the bellicose passenger to emerge.
“Dios mío!” gasped the innkeeper, taking in the imposing bulk swathed in heavy black robes. “It is the lord archbishop!” Turning on the young man beside him, he cried, “Grieco, you fool! Why did you not tell me the archbishop was with them?”
With that, he darted forward and ran to bow before the august cleric. “My lord archbishop! You honor us with your presence. Please, come in. You shall have the best room I can offer.”
Archbishop Bertrano gave the man a sour smile. “I would gladly accept your hospitality,” he replied, “but I believe the commander will have other plans for me.”
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