"Gracias a Dios. Where is the guide now?"
"Just below," Antonio answered. "The trail down is not steep. If we negotiate it now we will reach level ground just as the sun rises. The nearest village is but half a league away, so it looks to me."
Pulgar guffawed. "We will fall upon them before they take their first piss."
"We ride onward then," Francho decided, "and we ride to the attack as soon as we clear the mountain. But pass back the word, again, Hernando, that we are here for conquest and for loot. Not murder. We kill only those who attack us. The rest we take prisoner for the Crown. Those are the orders."
Pulgar squinted in the brightening light at the tall, commanding rider whose gauntleted fist was locked around an upright lance flying the green-and-white Mendoza colors, with brave green-and-white plumes waving above his helmet. Then he grinned into the level stare of this late-come but instinctive leader. "Ay, mi madre, but you forbid the best part, amigo. What good conquest and pillage without a little blood to wash it down?" he complained, half serious. But he wheeled his huge, caparisoned horse back to join the column.
De la Cueva's wolfish expression matched Francho's. "This will be even easier than plucking the rose from a maid."
"Sí, Antonio, as long as we are swift. That is our advantage, to strike like lightning and quick away. If we return laden with booty and captives we are heroes, but if we are decimated by El Zagal's hordes we will have far worse to contend with from our own."
De la Cueva's visor was raised; Francho could almost see the sparkle in his companion's dark eyes, the heightened color in a boyish face now blotched from excitement. "God is with us—and we therefore will prevail," the young nobleman averred. He turned to the men behind him and held up one steel-covered arm as a signal to the cavalry to advance. Francho did the same, and they both turned down the gently descending scree, loose pebbles rattling away from under the hooves of the horses. The sky continued brightening.
From the moment they gave the attack signal, jamming spurs into their mounts and loosing a pounding horde of steel-plated demons to terrify stunned and gasping villagers with blood-curdling cries of "Santiago" and "Castile and Aragon" and "Hammer of God!" a rapid sequence of events passed before Francho's consciousness in flicks and flashes. He found himself everywhere at once on his rearing horse; leading the destructive sack of the houses for whatever coin, plate, bolts of cloth, and silver and gold jewelry the people had accumulated and loading them into any cart available; sweeping along the fields and orchards with crackling torches setting afire stubble and trees and outbuildings so that great columns of smoke rose up to the fresh and cloudless sky; helping direct the rounding up of herds of fat sheep and cattle and their drovers; overseeing the gathering and roping together of prisoners, all the male villagers they could find except those few who to protect their homes had attacked the soldiers with wooden pitchforks and died for it.
With a detachment appointed to guard the spoils, he and de la Cueva reformed the main body of their troops and led them in a wild dash toward the second, smaller village a few leagues distant. These people had taken alarm at the smoke darkening the sky to the north and were scurrying to hide or protect what they could, yet the first easy victory added such exhilaration to the Christian charge that Francho and his cohorts pounded in among them like great evil djinns with leveled lances, yelling for surrender. Francho's followers swirled about, looting the houses and shops, dragging sacks of grain, taking prisoners, burning, repeating the rapacious plundering of earlier in the morning.
"Do we ride on to the other hamlet, the one to the east with the tower?" Pulgar called, wheeling his horse about in a melee of frightened elders, barking dogs, soldiers bearing away booty, wailing children, and mounted knights herding captive men.
"No," Francho yelled back, indicating the sun with a raised fist, thumb cocked up. He had slammed his sword back into its scabbard, for the few men who had offered resistance were dead or captured. "We must assume that any villager who escaped us has now reached Gaudix or a patrol. We must go back."
A short, stocky knight with the Encantando blazon on the tabard over his armor rode up to them. "The men want more. They are disappointed with their take. They hear there is a mill in the next village, great stores of grain—"
"No!" Francho ordered. "Their greed will get them a Moorish bolt in their backs. We have been hours in this valley and our retreat will be clumsy and slowed by the herds, the prisoners, the wagons. There is plenty for all. We go back. Now."
Intimidated by the threatening line of drawn black brows and implacable tone of command from his leader, the knight responded, "Sí, señor. I will get the prisoners moving. Fast," he added for good measure.
De la Cueva trotted up, his helmet off and fastened to his saddle because the sun heated up the gold- and silver-trimmed steel casque considerably. "What is wrong?"
"The hour, Antonio. If we do not turn about now we are foolhardy, and tempting the Devil to bring El Zagal baying on our tail. We are overburdened with plunder..."
"...and what's worse, plodding sheep and cattle and sullen captives," Pulgar agreed. He frowned into the distance in the direction of Gaudix.
"But the men grumble. There is a richer village to the east," Antonio said, shifting his seat, uncomfortable under many pounds of heat-trapping steel. He pulled off a gauntlet and wiped sweat from his forehead.
"To the Devil with them. Better one piece of booty less than the whole raid forfeit. Ho, Fortrano! de Bejas!" Francho shouted to nearby riders. "Call in your men. Caballeros! To us! We retreat!" The tug to thoroughly flout the enemy and rape the remaining villages was strong and Francho felt it too, elated as he was with the success of the foray. Great piles of agricultural booty and captured farmers dumped at the foot of the Spanish throne could only enhance his standing. But the same warning bell that had once signaled hold your hand, a Hermandad guard is too close, now pealed in his head that time had turned against him. Success could become disaster.
He and his main leaders rode up and down the retreating column keeping the procession of soldiers, captives, and beasts moving as fast as they could go, and in fact once turned homeward the grievances of the greedy disappeared and they joined the rest in hustling the train along.
At last they reached the hidden entry into the little-known pass. Bringing up the rear as the last of the column rattled along the scree, Francho turned to scan the valley, which was wreathed in ugly columns of smoke reaching to the blue sky, spying nothing of interest but the movements, tiny in the distance, of the women and children left in the nearer village. Appointing two riders to remain at the head of the trail until dark to watch for signs of pursuit, he plunged into the defile to catch up to de la Cueva, knowing they would not be safe until they emerged on the other side of the mountain, where their own forces patrolled.
The lumpy trail widened considerably and began a winding ascent over jagged hills as it cut a cleft in the mountain range. The awkward cortege plodded forward as quickly as it could be pressed on, until, squinting up at the slanting sun, Francho judged they were more than halfway through the pass. But then there was a shout. A commotion rippled all along the line as a rider urged his mount forward, scattering whatever was in his way and yelling out to the horsemen and soldiers on either side of the column. Motioning the men at the head of the train to keep up the pace, Francho, his cohorts and other leaders wheeled around to gallop swiftly back and meet the rider. Francho saw it was one of his rear pickets, now followed forward by thirty or forty other caballeros.
"A great cloud of dust, Señor Mendoza," the rider called out, "from the direction of Gaudix. El Zagal's men, riding like the wind. They would have reached the first village by now, or past it, perhaps!"
"How many riders?"
"Too far away to tell accurately. But from the plume of dust I think at least five hundred men."
A growl ran through the assembled knights as they faced the main leaders. "They are hot on our traces and
they far outnumber us. And so encumbered are we that they will make short work of us!" a nearby rider spoke out in concern.
"Sí, they are fresh. We have been in the saddle since last midnight," agreed another voice. Francho heard de la Cueva's low grunt of disgust beside him. "Poltroons. They want to run."
Another man yelled from the crowd of horsemen, "I say we abandon the animals and the captives and ride our spurs out of this rocky trap!" There was a loud mutter of defiant agreement from the bone-weary cavalry for whom the earlier glamour of the expedition had faded into this harried, rag-tag retreat.
"Sí, we can surely make the safety of the camp if we ride now, and if we rid ourselves of these entanglements," urged another with red-rimmed eyes.
With an oath Francho flung up his arms for silence. "Hombres! Señores! I cannot believe what my ears are hearing. Is this the flower of Spain who speaks so cravenly? Is this the vaunted ranks of caballeros riding for Los Reyes Católicos, feared and respected by every Moslem from Malaga to Egypt? We began this venture in the quest of glory for the Cross, and now will you end it in dishonor?"
The last of the column of booty and captives clattered by them, followed by the rear guard, some of whom stopped to join the controversy.
"What dishonor is there to recognize when to retreat and so live to fight another day? We have had no sleep, no food, our mounts droop—"
"For shame, señores!" Francho roared, black brows drawn together in a fierce line. "Could you be suggesting then that we leave our own foot soldiers to the swords of the enemy? Which one would evermore trust their standard to your arms? We do not run, caballeros, we fight. We are not women fainting with fatigue, we are men and knights in the service of Castile and Aragon, of Christ and Our Lord, of Their Majesties Ferdinand and Isabella. We are pledged to a code of honor followed by every warrior since the mighty El Cid. No, I say, we do not leave our spoils and captives, captives who pay for the thousands of Christian souls that are rotting in Moorish dungeons. No! We stand and fight!"
Now there were some voices calling out in assent over the rumble of comment.
"A rider approaches," came a yell and in a few seconds the second rear picket galloped around a fall of rock and pulled to a sharp halt before the gathered leaders. "El Zagal's men have found the defile and entered it. They are not far behind us," he panted. "I counted four hundred horse."
"Aha, the gap has been narrowed, from five hundred to four!" de la Cueva declared ringingly. "What Christian fighter cannot account for the dispatch of at least two Moslem dogs with every sweep of his good sword?"
Already they could hear faintly the sound of hooves and the clink and rattle of cavalry ascending the pass at an urgent pace.
Francho called out, "Look back. No more than five or six men can face each other in that narrow neck behind us. And they must attack, they must throw themselves on our lances and swords while we stand," Francho pressed. "Even half of us can cut them down, and they will have to fight upon a growing mountain of their dead." The sounds of the pursuing force grew louder, and the enemy could be glimpsed below through the rocks lining the trail.
A sudden roar erupted from the heretofore silent but scowling Pulgar. "What soldiers are these? These are women! Hernando del Pulgar does not turn tail!" he yelled, and with his armored bulk half-standing in the stirrups he kneed his horse, bore down upon the wavering standard bearer, and snatched away the lance from him. Yanking from under his own thigh-piece a delicate red chiffon kerchief conferred upon him by some lady, he snagged it firmly over the Castilian insignia already on the lance head, hurled a black look at the irresolute raiders, and clanged down his visor. He spurred up his mount so fiercely that the animal bucked and reared before hurling himself and his rider forward at the vanguard of the enemy, which had already ridden into sight down the trail.
"Santiago!" he hollered, "Santia-a-go!" The kerchief streamed bravely from his aggressively lowered lance, and in no more than the blink of an eye his war cry was echoed by Francho, de la Cueva, and some others, who spurted after him like arrows from a bow. "Santia-a-go!" Francho yelled. He heard a growing thunder of hooves behind him and knew that the main body of Spanish caballeros had rallied, goaded by the courage of their leaders and the sight of the enemy bearing down on the narrow neck of rock. Now in their numbers they charged with him and shouted "Santiago" to the skies, their shamed consciences making their cry fiercer than ever. He smiled grimly behind his lowered visor.
A flood of energy pounded through Francho's veins. The Moors would not expect them to attack so precipitously; such ferocity could disorganize the enemy, cause a breaking of ranks, a panic. He was not going to lose his great column of booty now; in his position of disobedience death was preferable to dishonoring the gentleman known as Francisco de Mendoza. But he would not die. With God's help and his men's strong arms they would hack El Zagal's pursuing riders to pieces. Thundering forward shoulder to shoulder with de la Cueva and Pulgar, he sighted sharply through his visor slit and quickly picked out his mark, a black-and-purple-beplumed Moorish knight bearing down on them with jutting lance and curdling cries. He steadied his own heavy, iron-tipped lance with the sure and firm grip of a tourney champion and with his elbow tested to see his sword was loose in its scabbard.
***
Along with the other ringleaders of the raid, Francisco de Mendoza slouched on the rude wooden bench that ran around the perimeter of the anteroom to Ferdinand's audience chamber. The dusty, blood-spattered, grinning caballeros of yesterday, who had led their cavalcade in triumph into the Baza camp with Pulgar in the vanguard proudly bearing his red kerchief on a lance, had metamorphosed into this morning's fine courtiers, immaculately attired— and nervous.
For hours they had been left to cool their heels and await their monarch's pleasure, or displeasure, for in spite of the welcome riches they had contributed to the encampment, they had still ridden out without permission. Francho stared along the length of his leg and inspected the tip of his boots, entertaining his own thoughts, but it did register that the conversations among the group were growing edgier and edgier as they remained unsummoned.
"Think you the Queen and her ladies will arrive soon? Tis already mid-November."
"Surely before full winter closes in. The women could hardly be expected to journey through the mountain blizzards and the winter muck of this plain."
"Ah, can I hold my patience until they are here? What a joy to see a pretty face again and hear a female voice not coarsened with drink."
"Me, I am considering kicking my whore out on her fat behind. She snores. And with the Court on its way I can afford to be particular."
Muted guffaws. "God grant the Duchess of Najera brings all her fine daughters. Lucia, the prettiest one, looks quite kindly upon me."
There was a snicker and a voice said insinuatingly, "By the bones of St. Anthony here is a naive gallant! She looks kindly upon any caballero who fills out his codpiece hugely." More soft laughter.
A hand flew to the hilt of a sword, hackles rose, eyes glared.
"As for me," drawled another gentleman, "I shall pray Medina-Sidonia has summoned his red-headed mistress. A breathtaking piece, that one, and much too young for his aging joints. She'll look elsewhere for her fun this winter, I'll wager...."
"Not at you, friend. Her eyes seem to favor those of us less windy and more suited to action. And better able to meet her expensive tastes, I might add."
Francho raised his eyes. He had to stay calm for the coming session with the King. But the conversation was beginning to rile him. It was crude and rude. For his part, when the Court reached Seville he had sent a truly abject note of apology to Dolores—for some reason it had taken him a few weeks to get over his strange anger at her— begging forgiveness for his boorish behavior and expressing the anxious hope that she would forgive him. Actually he had departed Seville almost as he arrived, accompanying the Count on a mission to the King of Portugal, and returning just in time to leave with the army
for the summer campaign against the strategic city of Baza. So he could only hope that his genuinely contrite letter had moved her to forgive and forget the execrable episode in Toledo.
"And who is this vaunted amada you are all so hot about?" asked a very young gentleman who had only just joined his brother at Baza.
The first man answered, "Daughter of some petty Baron dead and moldering in the southern Extremadura, they say, but gently educated. Medina-Sidonia holds a county there, and the lady's lands interest him. And so, upon hearing of this poor, orphaned country lady's desire to go to Court, he finds it within his heart to add her to his cortege and present her to the Queen."
Another voice chimed in, "So the solicitous Duke takes the gentle maid's protection upon himself. No matter that she is a raving beauty with a lively manner to match. Just for pity's sake, you understand."
"And installed her in a small but fine house in Seville for when she is not on service with the Queen. Ah, the beneficence of pity!" mocked a third gallant.
"But her old servant told my sister's duenna that their entanglement was solely financial, her doddering old sire having left no instructions..."
The objecting voice was drowned out by guffaws all around. Francho listened stonily but silently, for what had they said that was not true? He credited the rage he felt beginning to gnaw at his innards as just the result of the suspense of awaiting Ferdinand's reaction.
The portiers were pushed aside and a latecomer entered. Abruptly the subject of conversation was changed.
Felipe de Guzman had been a member of the raiding party too, albeit a disgruntled and surly one since neither the idea nor the leadership was his. There was no doubt in Francho's mind that the Count of Perens and his coterie had gotten their share of marketable spoils, even though he had to admit Perens was one of the first to slam down his visor and spur his charger at the pursuing Moorish troops. Perens was not a coward. But he was an implacable rival for Leonora. Biting at the edge of his thumb, Francho withdrew again into his own musings, only half aware as Guzman greeted several of the group around the room and condescended to a few moments of aimless banter with them. Then Don Felipe seemed to address his main purpose and strolled over toward the group's ringleader with barely concealed antagonism.
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