* * *
The three Crusaders had camped below the skyline, the night spent in comfort on the slope of a sandy hill. It had taken them a while to climb the escarpment, but the effort had been worth it. A steep fall on the other side of the ridge offered protection at their backs. In front and below them the slope ran down to a plateau, beyond which lay a series of arid hills, diminishing to a bare expanse of desert. Not that they’d need to cross it. They’d ride eastward now, reaching the coast in less than two weeks.
For once, Baynard Falkan had relaxed his rule, permitting a fire after dusk. Guthric had dug a pit in the sand, Quillon skinning a wild dog he’d snared, the carcase cooked on a spit. The men had chewed the stringy meat, shared a flagon of wine, talked with something akin to respect of the Fiesta de la Fuente. Then, with one of them always on watch, they’d slept peacefully on the fast-cooling sand…
Awake at dawn, they’d followed the ridge of the hill, reaching a stand of stunted oaks before noon. If travelling were as easy as this, Quillon thought, I wouldn’t hold it so hard against this foreign place. All we need now is a freshwater stream, bubbling out from the low side of the trees.
He went to look for it, peered at something moving on the plain, then turned to call the others. ‘What d’you make of it? Think those folks is alert to what they’re doin’? Seems to me they’re headin’ out toward the desert.’
* * *
Falkan took his time to study the scene. Heated by the midday sun, the air seemed to shimmer and swirl above the plain. All colour had been bleached from the ground, though he would afterwards remember it as cheap-made parchment.
Squinting, then turning aside as if to cool his gaze, he noticed two riders – children by the size of them, children on their fathers’ horses – and a string of twenty or so followers, all of them performing some grotesque, slow-motion dance.
Were they arm-in-arm? It didn’t seem possible—
He refreshed his eyes in the dimness of the trees, peered again at the column, realised now they were helping each other, not dancing at all, but staggering—
Guthric said, ‘I count four of ’em dressed alike. Black and white. Two up near the horses, the others—
‘I see them now. I mark them as having swords. And you, safeguard, what do your keen eyes have to tell us it’s about?’
‘Those two on the horses. If they ain’t children, then they’re women. An’ old – an’ the constable’s right. Four soldiers, armed an’ they could be in armour. As for the rest, they’re injured or dyin’ of thirst. Look there! One of them’s down. I tell you, m’lord, whoever they are, they’re in the devil of a stew.’
Falkan nodded, muttered something to himself, then came to his feet. ‘We’ll pay them a visit. So far as I can tell they’re just travellers, pilgrims maybe, though I’m wary of a trap. If you see me swing away, you do the same. Be ready with your weapons. Hold your mounts to a trot.’ Then he strode through the stand of oaks, loosed the tether-rein of his horse and rode out into the blazing heat of the ridge.
Fifty yards on and the riders leaned back hard, their spines pressed to the cantles of their saddles, the animals plunging and slithering down the long shallow slope to the plain. Dust rose in a plume behind them, feathering their descent.
And alerting those below.
* * *
Of the six young knights who’d escorted the pilgrims, only two had retained their horses. These they had offered to the countess and her compañera, though on the strict understanding that if needed – Enrique de Vaca saw the plume of dust to the north. His neck burned by the rim of his armour, his linen-covered helmet no more than a calyx of torture, he forced himself to the head of the column, blinking with pain as he told the condesa to dismount.
She turned away as though to refuse him, yet in fact to spare them both the shame of her tears. Then she slipped from the saddle, dropped to the ground, held out the thick leather reins. ‘I have seen them, señor. By the dust they make, a force of—’
‘We don’t know,’ he grunted. ‘Maybe not so many. Keep close to your companion. And I pray you, Doña Amata, do not run.’
‘Run?’ she cried weakly. ‘And to where?’
Enrique de Vaca’s brother knight, Arias de Barragan, had already half-assisted, half-evicted Doña Rosalia from the saddle. ‘You will forgive me, my lady, but we ride to save you both.’
Older than Amata de Monzón, the compañera was realistic, calm even now in the face of another attack. ‘Save us or not, young Arias, you do credit to your Order. If we die, it’s at God’s behest. If it’s you, I shall see your name remembered. If me, then the good Lord must have flicked back through the pages, catching up with those He overlooked.’
Arias managed the vestige of a smile, then jerked his horse to the left, to the north, to where the plume was now a crest across the plain.
The two remaining knights, those who’d been wounded and unhorsed, drew their swords and waved the women to stand behind them. If de Vaca and de Barragan died out there on the field, then honour and life might still somehow be saved. After all, a Knight of Santiago was as much a warrior afoot as ahorse, as ferocious when wounded as unscathed.
* * *
Two, Falkan remarked to himself, though drumming as if to have dealings.
He watched them come closer, admired the way they rode, parting now so their swords wouldn’t touch by mistake. You would also have to spread your gaze, he noted, to keep them both in sight.
He allowed them to come within earshot, then caught a hand around the pommel of his saddle, rose in the stirrups and yelled at them, ‘I am as you! Knight and traveller! And to help you, not to harm.’
In a single, unbroken manoeuvre, the Spaniards swerved away, Enrique de Vaca to the right, Arias de Barragan to the left. The knights seeming to flee – but no, only to turn and rejoin each other, this time approaching more slowly, but with swords still naked.
In the accent of Catalonia, Enrique said, ‘Three foreigners? How could that ever match against us two?’
‘I salute your confidence,’ Falkan told him, ‘though you must rope the bulls, before you call them yours.’
‘Your Spanish is not good,’ Arias told him. ‘But I like the idea of the bulls. You are perhaps what you say, señor—?’
‘Lord Falkan of Tremellion. From the island of England. These two my companions. Dressed though we are as travellers, we are bound for Marseilles, then the Christian Kingdom in Palestine, where we intend to serve the Cause. And you, my brothers? Do you also carry your blades in the name of Christ?’
Aware that Falkan’s weapon was sheathed, the Spaniards buried their swords in their long black scabbards. Then with weary, sun-hammered ceremony, they announced their names, their station, their encomienda, near the port of Tarragona.
Each man taking his turn, they recounted the events of the pilgrimage, offering no apology for their defeat at the hands of the brigands. Halcón would accept it, or he wouldn’t. Even as a foreigner, he surely had a mind of his own.
‘Six shepherds,’ Baynard murmured. ‘Thirty sheep, and about the same number of wolves. I’d raise this shapeless hat to you, my brothers, if I wasn’t so worried the sun would cook my head.’ He’d wished to say fry the scalp, but the words were missing, not that it seemed to matter. Enrique said, ‘We welcome your presence amongst us, the three of you, and as proof—’
Then with foolish determination, he jammed the heels of his hands under the linen-draped rim of his helmet, lifting the casque to reveal a circular welt of torn and blistered skin.
For the first time since their meeting, Falkan nudged his horse forward. ‘Wear it,’ he said gently. ‘One never knows when the next attack might come.’
Enrique de Vaca blinked at him, found something to respect in Falkan’s eyes, and lowered the blood-rimmed helmet back in place. ‘There are women,’ he announced. ‘We must guide them to safety. Soldiers of the Cross… Together…’
* * *
The arr
ival of the English Crusaders was greeted with suspicion, then a sad display of relief. The pilgrims lurched toward them, swayed unsteadily, reached to grasp their hands. They believed themselves saved now; who wouldn’t, with the ugly Guthric up there in the saddle, a pair of crescent-shaped axes pouched and buckled to his belt?
Baynard dispensed what little they could provide. A flask of water. A roll of linen strip. Three clean undershifts, these torn apart to make a crude form of headgear for those pilgrims who’d cast aside their robes in the panic of flight.
Arias de Barragan asked if they’d be willing to dismount, and let the injured ride.
The Englishman told him no. Under no circumstances would he be parted from his horse. Nor would the others. Not for the sake of the women, or even the wounded.
Arias retreated, eyes hard as dark-veined marble.
Then Enrique said, ‘You saw from up there, from the trees… Saw how we gave our horses to the condesa and Doña Rosalia. Yet de Barragan tells me—
‘What I will tell you, Señor de Vaca. If your last two animals were to die, then your ladies would walk with the rest. You’ll not understand me, and I’ve no wish to explain, but without these mounts, and the special burden they carry, the Christian Cause will be weakened. Now, dampen that murderous glimmer, and have me presented to the countess. If it were not for her and these melancholy pilgrims, we’d be far ahead on our trail.’
* * *
Notwithstanding the heat of the day, the meeting was chilly. Doña Amata managed a formal murmur of gratitude to Falkan, accepting his offer of protection as far as Monzón. But she was still at the mercy of her own guilt-ridden thoughts, still casting around to find fault with the world in general. The pilgrims had spent too much time at Compostella. Wasted time on the homeward journey. Shown their weakness by fleeing from the brigands.
‘I trust the pilgrims of England are better disciplined than these, Señor Halcón. And, I would add, that the knights of your military Orders fight with more determination than our own freyles caballeros.’ She cast a dismissive, tear-stained glance at her escort, deciding they were the ones to bear the blame.
Enrique de Vaca stared up at her, muscles cording in his jaw. He said nothing, shocked and damned by her accusation, knowing that, yes, the Knights of St James of the Sword had failed to save the pilgrims, but not, in the name of God, through lack of courage.
Falkan looked around, saw that not only de Vaca, but Arias de Barragan and their wounded brethren had heard the condesa’s words. He caught sight of Doña Rosalia, her fine-boned features soured with displeasure, the older woman glaring at her mistress.
Not caring that his Spanish was perhaps unequal to the task, Baynard Falkan said, ‘A moment of your attention, Doña Amata. Sad events have overtaken your party, and I regret to hear of your losses. But your remarks concerning these knights are ill-founded, discourteous and – wanting a better word – quite simply untrue. I have seen these men ride, seen how they handle their swords, though do not need a display of either to be assured of their prowess as knights. They were, I believe, attacked without warning and outnumbered five-to-one. The brigands were mounted, the pilgrims scattering, and you choose to say your escort lacked determination in the fight? In my opinion, Doña Amata, you are fortunate to be served by these Knights of Santiago. You are even now riding de Vaca’s horse. Hire me, and you’d be walking.’
Then he pulled his mount away, gestured to Guthric and Quillon and rode ahead to where the plain narrowed to a long, shallow valley. Another of the many places in which bandidos liked to lurk.
Quillon thought, I don’t know what all that was about, but Lord Falkan can’t ’alf snap it out in their language when he cares to. Last I saw, the woman was all set for another spray of tears.
As ignorant as the safeguard, Guthric was unconcerned by the exchange. His duties were simple. Show allegiance to Tremellion in the sinewy shape of Baynard Falkan. Defend him, protect the money, help see both delivered safe to Marseilles or the Holy Land. Arguments in a foreign tongue were just that to the constable. But the scouring of a valley for brigands was much more to his taste.
Chapter Thirteen
Twice they spotted movement in the hills, the riders spurring to face an attack. But nothing came of it, the ragged band continuing on its way. During that last long week another pilgrim died, while a second disappeared, muttering madness, in the night.
And then it was over, the towers of Monzón sighted to the east, the survivors croaking their cheers, chanting their prayers. With swollen faces, festering wounds, parched and scabrous lips, the pathetic group stumbled toward the valley, the river that watered it, the shelter of their homes.
Horsemen galloped from the fortress to greet the condesa and Doña Rosalia; to demand a full accounting from the escorts and query the presence of the English on the señoria of Monzón. It took time before they were satisfied, though with their doubts dispelled they led Falkan and the others into the coolness of the castle.
Their hospitality would have surpassed many a royal court. Unstinting in their efforts, they saw the men of Tremellion want for nothing. It was now a question of honour, a debt to be fully and handsomely repaid.
Throughout three luxurious days, Quillon, Guthric and their master were offered salves for their skin, fresh-killed meat and the finest wines for their strength. Their possessions were placed under rigorous guard, their horses nursed like pets. Time and again, Baynard was assured the two wounded Knights of Santiago were on the mend, and that Enrique de Vaca and Arias de Barragan were as well treated as the Inglés.
‘And the ladies, the condesa and her companion?’
A moment’s hesitation, and then, ‘As for Doña Rosalia, she has the fortitude one would suppose, Señor Halcón. But Doña Amata is not yet recovered. She rests without sleeping, heaping her mind with the ashes of remorse.’
‘Ask her if she will receive me,’ Falkan said. ‘There is a certain remark she made that – well, there’s a measure to these things. She perhaps needs to settle other minds before finding peace with herself.’
‘I’m not sure I understand, Señor Halcón.’
‘Maybe not,’ Falkan told the man, ‘but the request is yours to transmit, not comprehend.’
The servant flinched from the retort, though obediently delivered the message, word for word. And was surprised when the condesa said yes, she would receive Lord Falkan whenever he wished, suggesting that selfsame evening.
* * *
Dressed in undershift and surcoat, an unworn pair of boots, his sword and dagger looped to his belt, Baynard Falkan marked the condesa low on his list.
He first went to find his constable and safeguard, the two men in an extravagant painted chamber, the room furnished in imitation of the Moors.
A glance was enough to show him they were recovered from their sun-scorched journey from Zarueza. Quillon grinned at him, Guthric looking sheepish, both men out of place on the gaudy spread of cushions and gold-weave coverlets.
‘You seem well mended, messires. And adopting this as your future way of life?’
‘Awaiting your orders,’ Guthric told him. ‘The joskin appears to wallow in it. But for me, I’d wish us on our way.’
‘There’s one thing they’re mean with,’ Quillon remarked, ‘an’ that’s women. Asked every way I know how, but they all turn deaf, these servants, an’ blind when I try to show ’em—’
‘Save yourself,’ Falkan warned him. ‘Remember what I told you back at Tremellion. How it is with the women of Cyprus. Keep that in mind, safeguard, and forget the girls of Monzón.’ Then he suggested they made the best of their comforts now, for they’d be on their way soon enough. ‘Hard riding, messires, to the coast. Then rough sailing to Marseilles. The next sprawl of cushions you come across will be quite a distance from here.’
He left them with their jugs of wine, jars of olives, bowls of sweet summer fruits. It pleased Baynard Falkan to see his companions well-treated, if only for a while,
though he closed the door hard, to let them know how quickly they’d tire of their colourful, cosseting cell.
* * *
Impressed by the endless corridors of Monzón, he accosted one of the servants, demanding the whereabouts of the Knights of Santiago. The man led him back the way he’d come, up the sweep of a railed staircase, along another vaulted passageway, through a gallery that overlooked an inner courtyard, then finally to a series of long, windowed chambers.
As a son of Tremellion, with its weeping walls and a hall in which one could suffocate with smoke, Baynard let his hand rest on the dry stones of Monzón. He watched the servant bow and depart, allowed himself a brief sigh of envy, then went in search of the Spanish freyles.
He was met by Arias de Barragan, the young men standing for a moment, as if barring each other’s path. Falkan reached for words with which to explain his earlier refusal to part with his horse, willing now to tell the man he was carrying money for the Cause. But before he could do so, Arias said, ‘Your presence might well have saved us, these last few days, Señor Halcón. I had no right to ask a brother knight to dismount.’
‘You had every right, Señor de Barragan, wishing it for the comfort of the wounded.’
‘Even so.’
‘Nevertheless.’
Hard to tell whose hand was offered first, though the rough jar of their skin was sufficient, all trace of animosity dissolved.
‘You have spoken with the condesa, Señor Halcón?’
‘Not before visiting you and your brethren, Señor de Barragan.’
A smile of approval, the offer of wine, and Arias gestured to Falkan to precede him – ‘Along there, if it please you, and the door – just so, Señor Halcón – on the right.’
The Edge of the Blade Page 12
