by Dave Duncan
Why couldn't he be like Toby and not need women?
A shout from the rear turned his head. Something was wrong. The don wheeled his horse and went charging back to see, followed slowly by Francisco. Everyone else was stopping. Hamish directed Liath around a patch of bushes, watching to make sure the train followed without any stupid quadruped trying to take a shortcut, and then led the way back. By the time he arrived at the group he could guess that the problem was Brother Bernat.
He dismounted. "What happened?"
Josep said, "The Franciscan. He reined in and said he felt faint. We helped him down ... "
Hauled back almost on his haunches, Smeòrach skidded to a halt in a shower of mud. Toby flung himself from the saddle and plunged into the group, hurling Manuel and Rafael and others aside. Hamish sighed to himself and waited. Toby was fond of the old man and grateful for that strange healing he had gained from him. He was going to be upset if this was the end.
"How bad?"
Josep shrugged. He said, "Can't tell," but his face said very bad.
Hamish surveyed the countryside. The village Toby had just visited was only a mile or so off, on a low hill, but even from here it was obvious that the roofs had fallen in and the walls were blackened. The tower of the sanctuary was a stump, so there would be no spirit there and probably no people either. The town was just one more casualty of the terrible war, and he wondered why Toby had even bothered going to investigate it.
Then Toby's head rose above the others again. The watchers parted for him, and he emerged with Brother Bernat cradled in his arms. The old man's face, the color of skim milk, nestled against Toby's shoulder. His lips were blue, and his eyes not merely closed but sunk back into his skull. Toby went past Hamish without a word and set off along the road with huge strides. If he was looking for a place to dig a grave, why so much hurry?
Father Guillem and Pepita scurried after, running to try and catch him. Apparently they were heading for the village, but Toby's sword was hung on Smeòrach's saddle, so they had gone unarmed. Hamish detached his own blade from Liath, slung the baldric over his head, and thrust the reins at Josep.
"Look after them."
Josep's protests that he couldn't handle the train faded away as Hamish went racing after the others.
Toby was running up the hill, setting a fearful pace in spite of his burden. The monk flapped along behind him like a giant bat, holding Pepita's hand. Glancing back, Hamish saw that the others were following, but at a leisurely pace. The don would probably make them wait outside the gates, because the horses might break legs in the ruins, even if there were no thieves lurking there.
He caught up with Father Guillem, whose face was as red as a furnace door. Pepita would obviously be weeping if she had any breath to do so. What was all the burning hurry?
"There can't possibly be a spirit up here!" Hamish panted.
The monk said, "No," and kept right on going.
Hamish ran past them, slipped on a patch of mud, caught his scabbard between his legs, and fell flat on his face. Cursing in a mixture of Gaelic and Catalan, he scrambled to his feet and discovered he had wrenched an ankle. He switched to Breton and Castilian and began to run again in a wild, painful hobble.
He went by the child and Father Guillem a second time. Toby had almost reached the shattered town gate, and a couple of men had appeared, watching his approach. Hamish drove himself even faster, steadying his sword with one hand so he didn't make a fool of himself again. Why were they doing this? Did the old man just want to die in a shrine, even if it had no tutelary? Was this some Franciscan custom?
Toby slowed to a fast walk and went through the gateway with the two men following and Hamish at their heels. They glanced around and then ignored Hamish, following a few paces behind Toby. They were making no move to molest him and did not seem to be armed, but Hamish decided to stay at their backs and keep an eye on them.
The road was narrow and dim in the rain, but it was not obstructed by debris and gruesome bodies as the streets of Onda had been. Although most of the buildings were unroofed and stank of burned timber, the village was inhabited, and the residents had made a start on cleaning up and rebuilding. People began emerging from alleys and doorways, men and women both, even a few ragged children. Toby seemed to know where he was leading this procession, crossing a couple of tiny plazas without hesitation and apparently heading for the stump of a tower that marked the sanctuary.
When he reached it he ran up the steps and turned around. His face was red with effort and his chest heaved. The old man in his arms was showing no signs of life, but Toby nodded approval and went into the sanctuary. There couldn't be a spirit in there, or the hob would have stopped him, so what was he doing?
Hamish followed with the crowd at his heels. The building was open to the sky, a burned shell, but the floor had been swept clear. Most of the tracery had gone from the windows, the little that remained still holding a few pathetic fragments of stained glass. Throne, candles, images, pictures had all gone. Only the carved altar on the dais at the far end survived, its cracked and blackened stonework showing traces of gilt and paint.
Toby advanced almost to the altar steps and halted, still holding Brother Bernat in his arms. The spectators gathered in silence behind him, watching intently. Hamish wished he knew what was going on, because everybody else seemed to. He went forward to see if he could help. He could hear the old man breathing in a faint rattle that made him want to cough.
Toby knelt. Hamish took off his wet cloak and spread it on the flagstones so he could lay the old man down. One of the villagers spread another cloak over him. Then they all just waited in the rain, Toby on his knees, everyone else standing. If the spirit was still present, it was ignoring them. There must be many more comfortable places to die.
More people were drifting in. Father Guillem arrived, pushing forward to the front with Pepita in tow. The child knelt and took the dying man's hand, sobbing, not saying anything. For a moment he seemed to rouse. His eyelids flickered but did not open.
"Brother," Toby said. "We are here. It is a good place." His voice cracked. "It will be all right now, Brother."
Pepita bent close and whispered urgently. The slack mouth twitched as if he were trying to speak, or even smile. He gasped a few harsh, rattling breaths ... stopped ... a couple more ... then a long silence. His eyelids opened slightly, showing only whites. Toby reached down and closed them. They stayed closed. The watchers sighed.
Toby stood up and looked around—at the monk, at Hamish. He nodded and pulled a wry face. There was more than rain wetting his cheeks.
"Well done, my son." Father Guillem patted his shoulder. Surprisingly, Toby did not react angrily to this patronizing.
"Pepita?" The monk raised her and tried to scoop her up in his arms. She struggled free and went to Toby instead. He lifted her and held her. She sobbed on his shoulder.
There must be fifty people there now, but what were they all waiting for? Even Toby seemed to be expecting something.
A boy stepped forward from the crowd and walked past Hamish, moving in an oddly stiff gait and wafting a strong odor of goat. He was no more than twelve or thirteen, dirty, clad in rags, thin as canes. He climbed the steps and turned to look over the assembly with a strangely unfocused stare. There was a faint glow around him! So there was a spirit after all, and it was responding at last, too late to help.
Everyone was kneeling now.
"You will be our children," the boy said loudly. Some of the women cried out in joy. "If we may have your love, we will cherish you in return. The man's name was Bernat. Bury him where he lies now and honor his memory. He taught us well and carried us long."
The childish treble rang out again. "Tobias and Guillem and Jaume, we thank you for your help and give you our blessing. Pepita, dear child, weep no more. We told you, we warned you, and we love you still. Why should you weep now that your friend's task is ended? He has completed what he gave his life to. He is with
us and will always be with us."
Pepita pulled loose from Toby's embrace and knelt down beside him, choking with her efforts not to sob. The big man put an arm around her.
"Some of you still doubt," the boy said. "We will give you a sign to comfort you. Eduardo, what happened to your eyes?"
"I was hit by a sword, holiness," responded a voice from the crowd.
"Domènech, help Eduardo come forward."
The crowd seemed to rustle. A tall young man with a bandage over his face rose up in their midst and then helped an older, white-haired man to his feet. People cleared a path for them as they shuffled to the front, the old man leading the younger by the hand.
"You may remove the wrapping, Eduardo," the boy said. "Can you see now?"
"Yes! Yes!" The young man threw away the cloth and fell to his knees. "Praise to the spirit! Praise to Saint Bernat!"
Voices picked up the refrain. Hamish, like everyone else, lowered his face to the floor in acknowledgment of the miracle.
"Joaquim has some good years left in him," the tutelary said with a dry chuckle so like Brother Bernat's that it brought a lump to Hamish's throat. "Fetch Joaquim here. We will cure his legs and he will be keeper of our sanctuary. You may have Sancho back now, Joanna. Give him our thanks for lending us his voice."
Hamish looked up just in time to see the glow fade from the boy and his blank expression change to one of horror as he realized where he was. He sprinted down from the dais, red-faced and bewildered, only to be grabbed in a fierce hug by a short, fat woman, probably his mother. The building buzzed with excited chatter.
The town had a tutelary again, it would live. And even Toby had been expecting this! How had he known? Why had he not discussed it? Could it be that Hamish had been so tied up in his problems with Eulalia that he had not been paying attention to what was going on?
"Our work here is done," Father Guillem said, rising. "Are you consoled now, Pepita? That is not Brother Bernat lying there, so you need say no more farewells."
He put an arm around her to lead her away, but at once the strangers were mobbed by the excited, grateful villagers offering food, shelter, hospitality—anything. Toby and the monk declined as graciously as possible, explaining that they were on a pilgrimage and must rejoin their friends.
A little later, as they were leaving the town, Hamish said: "I don't understand. I never read anything about this!"
Toby smiled, although his eyes were still rimmed with red. "You can't find everything in books. It is called alumbradismo." He was amused at being able to lecture Hamish for a change, curse him! "There is more than one way to put a spirit into a person. Or into a town, apparently."
"But ... not a hob?"
Shadows darkened Toby's face. "No, just an elemental, and a lifetime of example. I expect Pepita will explain it to you, if you ask her nicely."
He was not going to, obviously.
SEVEN
Montserrat
1
Two days of steady rain had left everyone grumpy, miserable, and soaked. Father Guillem, coming trudging back along the trail to rejoin the pilgrims, looked like a bedraggled black beetle, and the way he was wielding his staff suggested that he was a beetle in a very foul temper. But why was he so obviously ignoring the man on a donkey following a few paces behind him?
Toby was no more cheerful than anyone else. He ought to be practicing his meditation exercises and cultivating serenity of mind, but he had his hands full with Smeòrach, whose simple mind was anything but serene. He kept trying to stamp on Toby's feet and jerking his head to try and pull his bridle loose from Toby's grasp. He hated the rain just as much as people did, and standing still was never his strong point anyway. As a landsknecht horse he associated a village like that one with nice dry stables, perhaps even oats or hot bran mash, so please could they go there now?
Evidently not. There were men with guns and pikes at the gate, and Father Guillem's efforts to negotiate had obviously not prospered. He was wearing a very unpious scowl as he returned to report.
"We are not welcome?" Toby asked.
The monk shook his head, shaking water from his cowl. "They refused absolutely."
"Did you explain that I am a Castilian nobleman?" the don demanded incredulously.
"I did, my son. And also that I am a senior official of the abbey. I even mentioned they were turning away women and a child, but it made no difference."
"Did you offer to pay?" Josep asked. His lips were blue and his teeth chattered. Most of the others looked just as distressed.
"Even that." Father Guillem shrugged and made an effort to be charitable. "They have their reasons. The Fiend's forces withdrew a few weeks ago—they did not despoil the countryside here, because of the truce that had been agreed, but a company of landsknechte was billeted in the village and caused all the usual troubles. Now that they have gone, there are lawless bands marauding, preying on innocent travelers or anyone else they can catch. They warned me we must be on our guard."
"But there are no troops around?" Toby said. "No garrison around Montserrat?" For him, that was very welcome news.
"They know of none." The monk looked around his dispirited companions and raised his voice. "Be cheerful, my children! There is a fine campsite half a league farther on. Tomorrow is the last day. By nightfall tomorrow we shall be safe and comfortable in the monastery."
"It can't be too soon. Your companion, Father?"
Everyone turned to look at the other man, who was just sitting on his donkey and smiling in patient silence at nobody in particular. He was clean shaven, fortyish, bareheaded. His jerkin and hose were plain but well made, shabby from long wear yet still serviceable. Apparently he enjoyed being wet, because the hood of his brown woollen cloak lay unused on his sodden shoulders.
Father Guillem frowned. "His name is Jacques. He is a servant of the monastery—a gardener, cleaner, porter, anything of that sort. He says he was sent to meet Senor Longdirk."
Everyone now looked at Toby.
"I am Senor Longdirk."
The man smiled uncertainly at him.
"You have a message for me?"
"No, senor."
"Then who sent you to meet me?"
The smile faltered. "Don't know, senor."
All eyes switched back to Father Guillem. "He is simple. I know him and know of him, but I have never spoken with him, except to order him to fetch something or clean somewhere. The villagers say he arrived last night and was refused admittance. He must have slept under a tree. He was still there this morning, waiting for Senor Longdirk. Frankly, I don't think you'll get any more out of him."
Toby glanced hopefully at Hamish, but he seemed as bereft of ideas as everyone else.
"The tutelary must know I am coming, though."
"Obviously!" the monk growled. "But what does it wish to tell you and why pick so useless a messenger?"
"Would the spirit itself have sent him, or the abbot, or who?"
"I have absolutely no idea." Bad-tempered black beetles disliked mysteries just as much as Hamish did. "I wouldn't trust Jacques to find his left hand with his right. The fact that he found you at all suggests that the spirit guided him." With a little more grace the monk conceded, "There is no harm in him."
"Did you search him for a letter? His pockets?"
"Of course. He has nothing, absolutely nothing except a razor, a thimble, and some shiny buttons. I don't think he's eaten since he left Montserrat."
Toby tried not to smile at the cleric's annoyance. "So all we can do is feed him and take him back with us?"
"Apparently."
Strange! Why send a moron when there must be dozens of eager young novices who would enjoy such a break in routine? It was something to think about. Toby looked to the don. "Your orders, senor?"
The don pointed across the field at the guardians of the village. "Artillery is rarely reliable in weather like this." He twirled up his mustache. "Lead the troops out, Campeador. I shall join you shortly
."
"Um ... " Telling Don Ramon to be careful would be a futile exercise. Besides, Toby approved of what he thought the young maniac had in mind. "Just let me get the others out of range, senor. Mount up, everyone!"
By the time the procession was moving in some sort of order, the don was cantering Midnight around in a wide circle, warming him up. Then he swung his shield into place, couched his lance, and charged the villagers at the gate.
He had been right about the arquebuses, for not a shot was fired. Three of the defenders displayed military training, swinging their pikes forward in the standard drill to oppose cavalry. The rest just screamed and fled back through the archway. Seeing themselves deserted and the madman still coming, the pikemen chose discretion over posthumous honor and followed. The gate slammed shut just in time, although the don could certainly have come faster and ridden them down had he wanted to. Yelling his war cry in scorn, he set Midnight to prancing and cavorting on their doorstep for a moment, before coming after the pilgrims. As he galloped by them, heading for his place in the van, they all cheered him mightily, even—Toby was amused to notice—the normally humorless Father Guillem. The mysterious Jacques merely smiled, not understanding the joke.
"Sometimes yon laddie is not as daft as he lets on," Hamish remarked with glee.
"You don't think that was daft?"
"No, I mean he didn't wait around until they found a dry arquebus!"
True." Toby shivered as more water trickled down his neck. "We'll have to keep our eyes peeled for rustlers tonight. Some young hotheads may try to redeem their honor."
"Not to mention the brigands. Um ... you won't mind if I trade with the monk and take second watch?"
"Not if he has no objection." Toby eyed his young friend inquiringly.
"He said he wouldn't mind." Hamish was looking elsewhere.
