The seven captains consulted amongst themselves. Finally, Leizaola, the youngest of them, stood up.
“It is agreed,” he announced. “The men of Avala will return home and protect our border against the Asturians. The men of Guipuzcoa will march to Pamplona to reinforce the garrison and wait to counter the threat of the Frankish invasion. Our brothers from Labourd, Basse Navarre and Soule will form small bands of armed men and take to the Pyrenees, informing us of where the Franks cross into Navarra. Then they will attack the supply lines. Inaki Etxebarria will go, with his Guipuzcoan brothers, to Pamplona and then on to Aragon.”
A tall elegant woman in the crowd stood up. All eyes turned towards her.
“Then you will send him to his death,” she said simply.
The silence could be cut with a knife. Who had dared to question the authority of the captains?
“We recognise Irune Etxebarria,” said Leizaola, “but why do you question our judgement? What grounds have you for your words?”
The woman bowed. “Because you send my son to his death, and I will not allow it.”
“How can that be? Can you explain yourself?” Leizaola said roughly.
“Certainly,” Inaki’s mother said. “He is the son of the rightful King of the Navarrese people, who was murdered by his own brother, Inigo Aritza, in order to take his place and the crown.”
Voices began to be raised with cries of “shame” were heard.
Leizaola raised his arm for silence. The crowd quietened down.
“Can you prove this?”
The woman held out her hand and opened it. The men around her gasped.
“Do you recognise this?” she said in her deep rich voice.
In her palm she held a brooch of infinite beauty. It was large and round, of fine silver. Around the rim within two circles, ancient runes were carved, separated by emeralds. In the centre was an Octopus, with two ruby eyes, its eight tentacles extended to the first circle of the rim. It was exquisite and of the finest craftsmanship. Patxi took it, moved under the oak and held it above his head, between forefinger and thumb.
“Behold,” he said, “the brooch of a Navarrese chieftain of high rank. It is the royal brooch of a king!”
The crowd cheered. The captains sat talking rapidly. The situation was potentially explosive. Murder demanded blood in Basque law. Inaki and his supporters could seek revenge against the five hundred men from Navarra. Inaki sat dumbfounded. As the cheering died down a voice was heard to say:
“I will guarantee his safety.”
Leizaola and the captains breathed a deep sigh of relief.
“Thank you, Goiri, captain of the Navarrese! We the captains of the Basque clans also pledge our support and protection, until the matter can be resolved, by the traditional way, by ordeal or a duel to the death. But this is not the time.”
Then a voice said slowly and deliberately: “Guaranteed with your life, Goiri?”
“Who dares question my honour?” Goiri said, his face showing his anger. He drew his sword and looked around him.
Three dogs stood up and moved forward. From the shadows, a giant of a man emerged. Aguirre stood there for all to see. “I do. Pledge your life Goiri, or make no pledge at all.”
“Aye, do that!” a voice said.
“I agree,” came another voice.
“Me too,” another voice repeated.
“And me. Make the oath or say nothing!”
By ones and twos, the forty men of the village stood. From the mood of the assembled troops, Goiri sensed that these were not the only men who would fight on Inaki’s side.
“So be it, with my life,” Goiri spoke reluctantly and put his sword into its scabbard and sat down.
Leizaola spoke, with relief in his voice.
“We thank you, Goiri. It is settled. Captains gather your men and prepare to move. There is no time to waste with further talk.”
Inaki move towards his mother.
“Why did you not tell me, Mother?”
“Your safety depended on you remaining anonymous. If our enemies had ever found out where you were, they would have tried to kill you. You must take great care in Navarra. There will be many that wish you ill there.”
“Don’t worry, little mother, I will take care of him.” Aguirre had come to her side.
“For that I will be eternally grateful, Aguirre.”
*
The next day, 1,900 men set off for Pamplona. At their head marched three captains: Zumalacarraqui, Zumarraga and the young Leizaola. At the rear of the column marched Inaki and Aguirre, with the four dogs walking beside them. Behind them were a long line of pack animals and a large flock of sheep and goats. The first day’s marching took them to Lasarte, where they made camp for the night. At dawn the next day they broke camp and marched on. By that evening they had reached Lecumberri, a medium sized town where more men joined the column. At Lecumberri they cut trees and made rafts. The river at Lecumberri ran straight to Pamplona and would cut the time to get there by half. Five hundred rafts took two weeks to complete and as they were made, groups of men launched them and secured them to the bank with ropes. Soon all was ready and most of the force embarked. A small group of men remained with the packhorses and sheep. They would follow at their own pace. The river began to widen and gather speed. Progress was fast and by the third day they had reached Pamplona. A joyous crowd met them.
Chapter Eight
The Abbot
It was winter and the wind was whistling remorselessly round the walls of the monastery. Like most isolated monasteries of the time, it was a fortified building. It had been an old Roman fortress in the past. It was perched on the side of a mountain, overlooking the plains stretching towards France and its position was of some strategic importance, since it was at the eastern entrance to the Roncesvalles pass. Some distance away to the east was the nearest Basque village, called Archurieta. Often, travellers would stop at the monastery for food, shelter, protection and rest. This enabled the monks to perform another important function, the evaluation and gathering of important information relating to the Iberian peninsular, in particular the Moorish troop movements and strength. They were Charlemagne’s eyes and ears and especially selected for the tasks they performed for him.
Inside a cell, the candles flickered. The old man gave a groan and woke up.
“I see we have company,” he said in a low voice. His life was slowly ebbing away and he knew it. In the corner of the cell a monk sat at a small table. On it there was parchment, ink and goose feathered quills. With a small knife he was sharpening a quill into a pen. Another monk sat close to the old man’s bed.
“The brother is here to record your words faithfully.”
“Ha! What is so important about my words?”
The old man spat out the exclamation. The monk beside the bed continued softly. “You were telling us about the encounter with the Sisters of the Moon. If you have the strength we would like you to continue. We are particularly interested in the location of their cave.”
“I bet you are! But first tell me what you know of them.”
“Only what you have told us, my son.”
“Don’t lie to me, you piece of bird shit! Besides time is short and I will take whatever you say with me to my death, which as you well know, is not too distant.”
The monk bowed his head and contemplated for a few moments. “Very well. We tried to make contact with them several years ago. We lost”… he paused for a moment …“many holy fathers.”
“For what purpose?” the old man asked.
“That I cannot tell you.”
“Will not, you mean!”
“I have not the authority.”
“Then go and get it,” the old man said with a sneer, and closed his eyes.
The monk sat for a moment. There was nothing more to be said. He could see that. He got up and left the cell. Sometime later the cell door opened and the Abbot entered
. The monk at the desk stood and bowed deeply. The Abbot waved him into his chair. The old man opened an eye and promptly shut it again. The Abbot smiled to himself and sat down beside him.
“I understand that you are not being very co-operative.”
“Neither are you,” said the old warrior without opening his eyes.
“What is it that you want to know?” said the Abbot
“Have you the authority?” asked the old warrior mockingly.
“I have.”
The old man opened his eyes. “I want you to satisfy an old man’s curiosity. One who is about to meet his Gods and can do you no harm. We have a common interest in the Sisters of the Moon. Tell me what your interest has been.” The old man looked intensely at the Abbot.
“Very well. If I do, will you be open and frank with me?” said the Abbot.
“Only as open and frank as you are with me. Take care, my mind is not dead yet!” said the old warrior.
No, thought the Abbot, and a very sharp mind it is too. He thought for a moment and decided that whatever he said could not be reported elsewhere. The old man would be dead within the next day or two. He felt that the risk was worth taking in order to unlock the old man’s mind. After all, most of what he would say was in the past; it was history.
“You have to understand that Aragon is important to us. It is strategically placed. Its geographic position places it between the two points where our masters could, if they wished, enter Spain. They could enter, through the northern Pyrenees, through Navarra. Another option is in the southern Pyrenees through Catalonian. Issues of safety and supply will determine the decision as to our place of entry. Aragon could not be taken. It is too mountainous and its people too rebellious. It would have taken too many men and resources to subjugate the population. Furthermore, it has little to offer in terms of resources or taxes.”
“Cold blooded bastards, aren’t you?”
The Abbot smiled. “Our masters are realists.”
“Ha! What you mean is that you have tried the north once already and failed,” exclaimed the old man.
“If I may continue?” the Abbot said patiently.
The old man nodded.
“Since invasion was out of the question, we were charged with finding a way of keeping Aragon occupied with internal problems so that our masters could progress into Spain without having to make provision for an attack on their flank. Alternatively, we sought a peace treaty, an alliance that would allow Charlemagne to pass and fight our common foe.”
“So you hit upon the idea of the Sisters of the Moon to do your dirty work.”
“They were there to do God’s will.” The Abbot placed his long, fine hands inside his cassock sleeves.
“So you had problems?” The old man spoke solemnly.
“How did you guess?” asked the Abbot.
“I am a pagan, with a pagan’s mind. We worship common deities, including the Moon Goddess. The Sisters would not have taken kindly to you or your kind.”
“The first monks we sent were not heard of again,” the Abbot said matter-of-factly.
“They would have died painfully,” the old man said in a sad voice.
“God be merciful! How do you know?” exclaimed the Abbot.
“One night with Venus, and the rest of your days with devils,” the old man said sighing.
“Explain yourself!” The Abbot’s voice was full of authority.
“Prepare yourself Abbot! I will give you chapter and verse of the Devil’s work and his acolytes on earth and the part I have played in their work to my eternal shame and damnation!”
“Christ died so that you could be saved.” The Abbot made the sign of the cross. “There is always the hope of salvation and absolution, if you embrace the one true Christ.”
“He would have been better advised to save himself, instead of getting pinned to a piece of wood. Listen, monk, and learn! The Sisters of the Moon chose one of their most comely to become their priestess. From the age of fourteen she is anointed everyday with a substance; the strength is increased each day with different poisons. The acolyte gradually builds up a resistance. When you first see her, she glows as if covered with scented oils. Her beauty radiates around her. However, she is deadly to the touch. You do not feel it at first, but days later your limbs tingle, and then gradually the feeling in your legs disappears. It is a deadly embrace that gradually reaches your heart. The complexity of the poisons used means that there is no cure, just a slow and living death.”
“When did you embrace the priestess?” said the Abbot softly.
“Not so long ago, as did your monks, I fear,” the old man had tears in his eyes.
“Would you like to make your confession and receive absolution?”
“No, I will not renounce my Gods. Why should I make any enemies at this late stage?”
“Very well, but the offer remains if you should ever change your mind. You can tell me the location of the cave?”
The old man looked into the luminous black eyes of the Abbot. Ignoring the request, he asked a question. “Your intentions are no longer to enter through Navarra or invade Aragon?”
“No.”
“Your retreat from Navarra was unexpected?”
“Yes.”
“But you still hope to use the Sisters in some way?”
“The plan remains largely the same with a few necessary adjustments.”
“You used the Sisters to kill for you, didn’t you?”
*
The Abbott remained silent. The old man did not speak for a moment, a thought had occurred to him. There was something about the Abbot that troubled him. He considered the best way to approach the subject.
“Finally, let me ask you,” he said, in a matter of fact voice, “how many languages do you speak, Abbot?”
“Five,” replied the Abbot.
The two men looked at each other. Until that moment their conversation had been in French. The old man now spoke rapidly in his own language, Euskera.
“What is your name?” he asked in Basque.
The Abbot, caught off guard, involuntarily replied in Basque.
“My name is Angel Garai.”
The old man smiled. A Basque as he had thought and from his accent, Navarrese at that! He continued in Basque and noticed that the monk had stopped writing, since he obviously did not understand a word.
“You have a personal interest in my tale?”
The Abbot composed himself and replied in French.
“Please speak in French otherwise I will have to translate everything you say and that will be very tedious.”
The old man ignored him and continued in Basque.
“You care for your people?”
“I am the instrument of the one and only true God. I care for the eternal souls of all men.” The Abbot bowed his head.
“Ha!” The old man spoke with venom in his voice. He continued in Basque: “You make me laugh!” He paused. “You people preach the doctrine of the one and only God, Creator of Heaven and Earth, in whose sight all men are equal whatever their race, creed or state. You preach humility, charity, forgiveness of injuries done or perceived, and the condemnation of violence and yet you work for and support Charlemagne who is the greatest murderer and subjugator of the known races. Do you still support conversion at the point of a sword? Now translate that!”
The Abbot ignored him and replied in French. “He was destined to be the Protector of the Faith and ordained by His Holiness the Pope, our Father on earth, as King of the Franks. He is the instrument of the one true God.”
“You mean that God is on the side of those with the biggest armies? That might is right.”
The Abbot spoke gently. “Let us not quarrel, my son, tell me about the cave and Inaki’s dream.”
“You think it was just a dream? That this Nagusi cannot travel into the spirit world. Fool!”
The wily old man closed his eyes. He was in a
mischievous mood. “It strikes me that the Moslem brethren can make the same claim to the one and only God. After all with His help they have conquered most of Spain.” He paused. “I’m tired.” He had finished.
The Abbot sat for a few moments. It was no good. He stood and left. When he reached his study he sat with his head in his hands and in tears. The interview had taken its toll. He would do his duty. He would report to his superiors all that had been revealed. But he was a Basque by birth and he loved these rebellious and independent people. He had left his roots when he had joined the Church, but he could not deny his people. They were part of him. He got up and went over to the crucifix in the corner of the room. He knelt on the stone floor and prayed for divine guidance and for the peaceful repose of the old man’s soul. But the thought kept troubling him. Was it possible that the Nagusi could change and move into a spiritual world? After all, did not the great Christian mystics have the same power? His intellect told him it was possible, but the thought was heresy. The other thought that troubled him was that the Moorish boy was still alive. Could it be possible that the old man had not guessed their involvement or was he playing some sort of game?
That evening he took a bowl of hot broth to the old man and fed him. From that day on he fed the old man himself and spoke to him in his native tongue. As the few remaining days passed the Abbot learnt more. The old man was deteriorating rapidly. He had lost all feeling up to his midriff and his lower limbs were oozing blood through the skin. The cell had an odour of decaying flesh. They washed him daily, but the smell prevailed despite all their efforts.
“You asked about the cave,” the old man said weakly. “Are you interested in its location or the young captive Moor?”
“Both,” the Abbot replied.
“Neither of us have time to play with each other,” said the old warrior in a tired voice.
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