The Years of Longdirk- The Complete Series

by Dave Duncan

  "No," she said airily. "Just you and Brother Bernat."

  The sensible thing to do would be to gather Gracia and go. These pilgrims were nothing to him. Traveling in company was more pleasant and normally safer, but it would not be safer for him if Pepita started babbling her fancies to everyone else. The slightest whisper of demonic possession led straight to the Inquisition.

  The chubby squire and his pony arrived, accompanied by Hamish, who gave Toby a reproachful look, which he had certainly earned. Even Francisco seemed a little less convivial.

  "The last members of our company, senores—or should I say first, since they travel at the front?—are the esteemed Senores Brusi. The father, Salvador Brusi i Urpia, is a man of much importance in Barcelona, a silk merchant." Francisco dropped his voice to a squeak. "Very wealthy! And his son, Josep Brusi i Casas."

  "They saved their hides by running away when the rebels came?"

  Francisco cleared his throat, although his eyes had started to twinkle again. "I expect they had urgent business in Granada or Seville."

  Brusi Senior had found himself a low wall to sit on while he waited; it appeared to be a relic of an ancient sheepfold. He was a shriveled raisin of a man, small and bent, but his eyes were sharp enough and his little prune mouth screwed up in disapproval as he watched the strangers approach. If he was rich, his garments were plain enough not to show it. His horse was a roan mare of quality, though, with smart trappings, and his two packhorses were worth plenty in these troubled times. All three of them needed a good grooming.

  The boy holding the mare's reins was about Hamish's age, but sallow and gawky, with the listless air of a humble, bookish clerk, and already showing some of his father's stoop. He wore a knife in a sheath on his belt, but no sword. The Brusis were not fighters.

  But they were wealthy, and Senora Collel might be. Why had they not obtained better protection? Had they underestimated the perils of the journey or been misled by the don?

  Francisco made the usual introductions.

  "More guards?" Salvador Brusi snarled. "At whose expense? I shall hold the don to our agreement, to the last dinero."

  "The don is a man of his word, senor," Francisco said smoothly.

  "Bah! And what does he know of these two, hm? Rogues! A pair of footpads who will cut our throats in the night and steal our horses!"

  "I wouldn't want them," Toby said. "Not in that condition. Why don't you look after them better, old man? They're walking gorse bushes."

  Brusi bristled. "Insolence!"

  "I give what I get. If we did want to steal them, we could knock your brains out this instant and let Don Ramon ride his hack into the ground trying to catch us." Toby's Catalan was far from fluent, but he had obviously put over the gist of what he had tried to say, for Brusi was scarlet and spluttering. "Tonight my friend Jaume and I will curry your mounts for you—for a suitable fee, of course—and get those ticks out of their coats before they go sick and die on you."

  He turned to Francisco, whose eyes were rather wide, but whose pudgy face otherwise bore a studied lack of expression. "Let's go and talk to the don about our order of march. Senor Brusi, you may start moving again when Miguel and Raphael catch up."

  "You don't give me orders!" the old man screeched, lurching to his feet.

  "I just did."

  It was unfortunate that Pepita chose that moment to snigger. As Toby strode forward, he glanced at the younger Josep, and was surprised to see traces of a grin. He winked. Josep twitched in surprise and then winked back.

  Don Ramon had completed his survey of the terrain from the knoll, and was now returning. Hamish fell into step at Toby's right, and a moment later Francisco's pony arrived on his left.

  The old man coughed meaningfully. "Senor Longdirk, while I have greatly enjoyed your progress, I do hope you realize that here men of humble station are expected to observe a certain tact when addressing the gentry? Of course I have no intention of criticizing how things may be done in your fair homeland of Scotland, but this is Spain."

  "In Scotland they would hang me for it. You think they may hold back my wages?"

  The squire sighed. "I'm certain you won't ever see a dinero of them." He chuckled. "But, please, senor, I implore you, do not try such tactics on Don Ramon!"

  "I have no intention of doing so."

  "Shade his honor in any way and one of you will die, senor, I swear it."

  "I shall be as prim as a princess."

  How long could he hold to that resolve? Did he even want to try? A dozen adults and a child, and only one of them a real fighter—and even that was giving the don the benefit of a very considerable doubt. His fighting might be as muddled as his thinking. However nimble he was at getting on and off his horse, had he ever swung that broadsword in his life? Apart from him, only Miguel, Rafael, and Father Guillem were likely to put up any defense at all, and none of them could have any training or experience. With Hamish and himself aboard, the company would certainly have a better chance of surviving any trouble it might encounter. Under any normal circumstances, there would be no question—the newcomers would ask to join the band and place themselves under the hired guard's orders. When the hired guard was a raving aristocratic maniac, was that such a good idea?

  Toby turned for another look at the pilgrims, which required him to walk backward, making Pepita laugh and drum her fists on his helmet. Then he turned the right way round and said in Gaelic, "Hamish? You want to serve the noble lord?"

  Hamish jumped, as if his mind had been a long way away. "You're not serious? You can't be serious! You couldn't even take orders from Sergeant Mulliez! You think you can keep your temper with that snooty lunatic?"

  "I might. I wonder whether he's as crazy as he pretends to be. Senor Francisco, is the Senora's packhorse carrying gold?"

  The squire choked. "Gold, senor? Whatever ... Why would you think such a thing?" His horrified expression said that it did, or at least he suspected that it did. He could have seen how the bags were handled when it was loaded and unloaded.

  "There doesn't seem much on its back, and yet it walks as if it had a heavy burden. Doesn't matter." Toby must make his decision soon. "The don has to ride at the front of course."

  "Of course!" Even Francisco could not imagine any other arrangement, and Don Ramon himself believed he was leading a train of a hundred—knights in livery, beautiful ladies on white horses, banners flying, band playing. It was a beautiful picture, but it wasn't real.

  Nevertheless, Miguel and Rafael were the nearest thing he had to fighting men, so he had put them at the rear. The horses wouldn't like the mule, anyway. The only other man who might strike a blow, Father Guillem, he had set in the middle. And himself at the front.

  "I suppose Senor Brusi is paying most of the fee, so he insists on being as close to his guard as he can be?"

  "Only the king might insist with Don Ramon, senor. It is by his command that the senor travels there."

  A command that conveniently forestalled argument. So the order of march made good sense, but might be mere luck. If Toby were to take charge now, what would he do? Move the two peasants to the center and put the new men at the rear? No, probably send one man on ahead to scout for trouble and have the other patrol back and forth along the line, herding the sheep.

  Don Ramon had reined in to await the deputation.

  "Senor?" Francisco whispered. "He would really like you and your companions to join our troupe, although I admit his way of expressing himself is a little strange. We should all like it. What do I tell him?"

  "That we pray to be considered worthy of entering his service."

  The squire beamed, but only briefly. "You will be careful, both of you? His honor is all he has left in the world."

  "It will be safe with us," Toby said. "I am not at liberty to explain this, senor, but I have a deep respect for Don Ramon. To serve him will be a privilege."

  Surprise, suspicion, then recollection ... "You knew his name!"

 
"And I honor it. Pepita, you have to dismount now. This mule needs a rest." Toby reached up to lift the girl down, then discarded his pack and staff. He accompanied Francisco over to the boy on the big horse. The don stared down at them with his customary arrogance.

  The squire dismounted and doffed his cap in a low bow. "Senor, Captain Longdirk entreats you to accept him and his troop into your service."

  "Of course. Did you expect him to pass up the opportunity of a lifetime?" Don Ramon looked expectantly at the new recruit and bent just enough to offer a hand, palm down.

  Toby bowed, unsure what was expected of him and not entirely certain of his own intentions even yet. He looked up at the sea-blue eyes and the utter contempt in them. He was, said those eyes, dirt. But the don had looked at him like that—exactly like that—when he was on the scaffold, facing the headsman's ax. Any man capable of such defiance at the lintel of death was a man indeed.

  "Senor, my company and I will be honored to serve you." Until I cut off your head. He kissed the pale fingers. He stepped back, bowing three times, as he had seen the don himself do.

  The don showed no sign of emotion at the touching ceremony, other than a sneer which said that of course the stupid foreigner had done it all wrong but his ignorance would be overlooked this time. "Now, Captain Whatever-your-name-is, send some troopers to scout ahead. They are to keep their eyes peeled at all times for possible ambush. I want no heroics—at the slightest hint of trouble they are to run back like rabbits and report to me personally, is that clear? And set some others to patrolling the column, to make the stragglers keep up. Look lively!"

  "As the caballero commands." Toby saluted and went back to issue the necessary orders to his company.

  Hamish had heard all that, and his expression was rarer than diamonds.

  "Look lively now. Sergeant Jaume!" Toby said. 'Take a dozen of our best men and escort Senorita Pepita back to Brother Bernat. After that, ride herd on the civilians and make sure they keep moving along."

  "Aye, aye, sir!"

  "And brush up your Catalan. Your accent's terrible."

  Hamish said something in breathy Catalan, too quick to catch. It did not sound respectful, and the grin that followed it certainly wasn't.

  5

  Scouting was an easy thing to do badly, a hard one for a lone man to do well. By rights Toby ought to zigzag back and forth across the entire width of the valley, from height of land to height of land, while investigating every bush or rock in between, but there were limits to how much ground even his legs could cover and still keep him a reasonable distance in front of the main band. Fortunately his pack was lighter than it had been.

  Unfortunately, it was growing ominously light, and his solitary wandering gave him time to brood over a very grim-looking future. One of the rules of field craft he had picked up in his mongrel career as soldier, peddler, teamster, smuggler, and most often fugitive, was that a man on foot could rarely carry more than ten days' rations. While he was unusually strong and not much encumbered with other gear, he had an appetite to match his size and bore Gracia's share on his back as well as his own. He estimated they had only seven days' supplies left. Hamish's pack was mostly filled with books, of course. They would not reach Barcelona in seven days. When they did, they would not find it built of gingerbread.

  When he wasn't worrying about food, he worried about Oreste and himself chopping off Hamish's head.

  Around noon he came to a burned-out casa. Nothing remained of the main house except fire-blackened two-story walls with secretive little window openings, and the destroyers had gone to a great deal of trouble to waste the surrounding crops, vines, and olive trees. Only the weeds prospered, already moving in to conceal evidence—a table leg, an anonymous charred bone, half a child's doll—but the ruins were deserted and there was water in the well, so it would be a good place to make the midday halt. He signaled to Don Ramon, receiving a wave from Francisco in acknowledgment. Then he placed his pack on top of a thick, head-high wall. As a picnic site it lacked shade, but it commanded a good view of the countryside.

  By the time the pilgrims arrived, he had filled the water trough. Hamish quickly began assisting Senora Collel's party, probably so he could stay close to Eulalia. Old Salvador Brusi made straight for the nearest patch of shade, leaving Josep to tend the horses, although he was obviously unskilled with them. Toby went to help him unload.

  Clumsy the youngster might be, but he spoke Castilian and could understand Toby's polyglot jabber. "I apologize for my father's rudeness earlier, senor," he said diffidently.

  "I am sorry I barked back at him. How far have you come?"

  "With the don? From Toledo. How long will it take us to reach Barcelona?"

  "At this rate about a hundred years. The mule slows us. It is overburdened."

  "Yes. Often has the don told them so and made them carry half its load themselves, but as soon as his back is turned they put it all on the mule again."

  "Your horses could carry more. Will you consent to take some of their goods?"

  Josep glanced anxiously in his father's direction. "I shall ask, senor."

  "Without trying to charge a fee, of course."

  The young man smiled wanly. "That will certainly be the problem."

  "It is to your advantage that we make better time."

  Having established to his own satisfaction that the Brusi baggage included substantially more than seven days' food and several suspiciously heavy bags that might well contain gold, Toby returned to his pack. Hamish was already there, perched on the wall and unwrapping some of the inevitable beans. Gracia had been invited to dine with Senora Collel, who must either have ample provisions or else did not understand the danger of starvation.

  The overall picture was dismal—the three women under an orange tree that had somehow survived the devastation, the two clerics and Pepita near the well, the Rafael-Miguel foursome in another corner, the Brusis also by themselves. He looked around for the don and his squire, but they had ridden off to the nearest hillock.

  "A friendly lot," he observed.

  "They're frightened," Hamish said, chewing. "Senora Collel is furious because she has to sleep in the open. She brought no tent. She expected comfortable inns, because that was what she enjoyed when she went south. She says it was most inconsiderate of the invaders to burn the inns."

  "Fear ought to make them unite. Or the don should. That's what a leader is for."

  "He's crazy! Mad as a wet cat."

  "So is Gracia. It's the war, I think. I'm not even sure of old Brusi, if he's trying to carry gold without a proper escort. And I'm crazier than any of them." Toby did not really think he was crazy, but he suspected the hob was. "We all should get along famously."

  Hamish grinned. "It's lonely being the only sane man in the world. You're right about Brusi. Senora Collel says he got such a good price from the don that he couldn't resist the bargain."

  "Oh? And what's her excuse?"

  The grin widened. "She heard about Brusi and thought he was shrewd enough to know what he was doing, so she signed up too. None of them had any idea how bad the devastation was." He tugged a weighty book from his pack.

  "What's that one about?" Toby asked.

  "Hmm? Catalan verse. You did tell me to brush up my Catalan."

  "You planning to quote poetry to Eulalia?"

  Hamish looked up, wide-eyed with hope. "Would that work?"

  "I've heard it can be quite effective. And if you think it will help, you can tell her that Gracia and I are lovers."

  Hamish turned faintly pink. "I already did." He began to read with great concentration.

  Poor Hamish! Since the evening of the day his voice broke, he had been making advances to pretty girls. Even now that his beard had grown in—a little scanty in spots, but an honest beard—they still seemed to think of him as only a boy. He had no trade or land or family prospects. Possibly he was too intellectual, all head and no heart, and probably too solemn and serious, althoug
h he was witty enough with men. It was definitely time to send him home to the glen to wed some bonnie lass and raise another generation of schoolteachers.

  And poor Toby! He had the opposite problem. Since Mezquiriz, he dared not even think about women in case he reminded the hob of Jeanne.

  Oh, Jeanne!

  Hamish yawned. They were both worn threadbare by too many broken nights.

  "If you drop off up here," Toby said, "then you will drop off. Take a nap." He would not. The don must not catch them both sleeping on duty.

  Hamish peered at him blearily. "Half and half? Wake me in an hour?"

  "Promise."

  Hamish closed his book and jumped down. He stretched out on the grass and was snoring in seconds.

  Toby retrieved the sword from his pack and fashioned a loop of rope as a baldric for it, thinking the sight of it might make the pilgrims more inclined to accept him as a guard. Worried he might go to sleep in the heat, he clambered down and walked around to see to the others. They were all doing what Hamish was. There was no sign of Don Ramon or Francisco.

  The landscape baked in silence, nothing moving under the sun, not a bird in the empty blue sky. He went off to the remains of the vineyard to see if the birds and insects had overlooked any grapes. The vines were grown on the ground, not on trellises, and he waded knee-high through rustling brown leaves, pushing branches aside with his sword. He found only a few moldy raisins to eat, but it passed the time.

  Help soon arrived in the person of Eulalia, slender and slyly smiling, who had no doubt feigned sleep to evade her mistress and was now elated to have the big young stranger to herself. That he would be equally pleased she would not doubt, nor should she—her shapeless servant garb could not completely deny the lure of the body within. Her robe was of coarse brown fabric, long-sleeved to cover everything except face and hands, decorated crudely with strips of yellow and orange, probably by herself. A darker cloth covered her head, but the casing on her braid hung to her waist, and nothing could disguise the magic of the dark eyes, the sculptured perfection of features, the complexion like aged ivory. Dress her as a princess and she would be one. Small wonder Hamish had lost his wits already.