Eleanor hesitated, but only for a moment. “The Lord of Biscay,” she replied, and tensed, ready to turn her horse and flee if that proved the wrong answer.
Her luck had held. “Then you and I shall be friends,” the nobleman declared, “for I am Don Garci Laso de la Vega, one of Don Juan Núñez’s chief adherents. I flatter myself that you may have heard of me?”
As it happened, Eleanor did vaguely recall him. Known as “El Joven” or “The Younger”, to distinguish him from his father of the same name, Don Garci enjoyed a distinguished reputation as a soldier, and had led Castilian troops at the Battle of Rio Salado. He was also high in the favour of Don Fadrique, Master of the Order of Santiago and Don Enrique’s half-brother, and said to be an honourable, chivalrous knight.
Eleanor’s heart leaped, for she could not have hoped to stumble into the company of a better man. “I know your name and fame, of course, Don Garci,” she said, humbly bowing her head, “and would be honoured if you took me into your service.”
His grin widened, and laughter rippled through the men gathered behind him. “You would indeed,” he said, “but I don’t employ any man just for the asking, especially if he won’t tell me his name.”
Eleanor blushed, and hated herself for it: Cesario was not the blushing sort. “Cesario,” she replied, “of Leon. My lord was ambushed and murdered by robbers in the mountains, forcing me to seek employment elsewhere.”
“Cesario of Leon,” repeated Garci, raising his eyebrows, “Leon is a big place, can you not be more specific? No, ignore that question. I am not one to pry, and you look a little young to have too many sins on your conscience.”
He weighed her up, tapping the leather thong in his right hand against his boot. “You may ride with my company,” he said at last, “and come back with us to Burgos, once we have run this accursed hog to earth. More than that, I cannot promise. Now, we have been delayed long enough from our sport.”
He turned his horse about and raked in his spurs, urging her on into the woods where the hunt had disappeared. His men galloped after him, with Eleanor toiling in their wake.
The boar was soon cornered against a fallen tree, where he stood swinging his head from side to side to keep the ravening hounds at bay. He was a splendid beast, a light smoky-grey colour with black stripes, and his curved yellow tushes that dripped foam.
His death almost led to Eleanor’s. The hounds flew in for the kill before any of the huntsmen had a chance to loose off an arrow, and seized their quarry by shoulder and throat and leg. The squealing boar tried to break free. He charged in Eleanor’s direction, barely impeded by the hounds grimly clinging to his flesh. The bundle of limbs and bodies rolled towards her at terrifying speed, but she had enough presence of mind to drop to one knee and present her spear.
“No, Cesario!” she dimly heard Garci yell through the blood rushing in her ears, “that is no hunting spear you carry! Get out of the way!”
He was right: the spear she held was the light javelin Enrique had given her. A proper boar-spear, by contrast, was much longer, with a blade like a razor and a cross-piece about eighteen inches from the point. The cross-piece prevented the boar from rushing right up the length of the spear as it went into his chest and goring the hapless person at the other end.
There was no time for Eleanor to spring aside. She just caught a glimpse of the razor-sharp bristles quivering upright on the boar’s back, his fierce and rolling eye, and was overwhelmed by his rank stench and the frantic growling and barking of the hounds. Then the tumult closed over her head, and all was pain, stinking darkness and a terrible crushing weight that expelled all the air from her lungs.
When she woke up, she was lying on a cloak spread over a patch of flat ground. Garci was looking down at her. His men were engaged in the ritual of cutting up the carcass of the slaughtered boar. One man, bloody to the elbows, was skilfully disembowelling the kill with his hunting knife, while two more were building a fire. As was customary, the surviving hounds were to be rewarded with a cooked meal of bread and entrails.
Three of Garci’s hounds would eat or hunt no more in this world. They lay beside the kill, their backs broken and their bellies split open by the boar’s tusks, their eyes staring glassily at the darkening afternoon sky. Eleanor would have felt pity for them, if she was not so distracted by pain.
“Just bruises,” Garci said softly. She was touched to see tears glimmering in his eyes, though they were probably for the dead hounds rather than her. “You have my groom to thank for your deliverance. When the boar rolled over you he stepped in, calm as you like, lifted aside one of the hounds and thrust his falchion into the quarry’s heart. Then we dragged you clear.”
Eleanor cautiously sat up, wincing as pain lanced through her side. “Riding will be difficult,” she gasped.
“My men will rig up a stretcher, and carry you to Burgos. The city is not far. Once there you can rest and recover at my lodgings in the castle. We will need you on your feet soon enough, when King Pedro comes to avenge himself on the city.”
She forgot the pain for a moment and looked at him in surprise. “I heard that he was dying,” she said, but he shook his head.
“Not so. He was gravely ill for a while, but the whoreson has the constitution of a bull. The latest news from Seville is that he has risen from his sickbed, and intends to put himself at the head of the army Albuquerque has scraped together. Castile is rotten with treachery and rebellion, but Burgos will be his first target. So you had best mend quickly.”
Thus Eleanor was carried the last two miles to the gates of Burgos, lying on a stretcher made of twisted branches. The four men carrying the stretcher and struggling to keep up with the horsemen were not happy with their lot.
“Why is our lord so anxious to help this vagrant?” asked one, giving Eleanor a dark look. His companions hushed him into silence, fearful lest Garci should overhear. Eleanor noticed two of them exchanging wry glances, and wondered if Garci had a fondness for pretty young boys that went beyond the usual limits of male comradeship. If so, he was destined to be sorely disappointed.
Word of Pedro’s recovery and his intention to march on Burgos had obviously spread, for the roads were choked with refugees fleeing for the sanctuary of the city walls. The crowds parted at the sight of Garci and cheered him as he rode past.
The little procession entered the gates of Burgos and made its way along Sant Estaban Street towards the castle. Trumpets screeched on the battlements to welcome Garci as he led his party through the gates of the outer ward, where they were met by a group of servants. The boar, now divided into quarters, was swiftly dispatched to the kitchens, and the hounds led away by their handlers to the kennels. Eleanor’s stretcher was laid on the ground, and Garci himself helped her to stand.
“Still hurting, I see,” he remarked as she gasped at a fresh burst of agony in her side.
“It’s like being stabbed,” she replied through gritted teeth.
“As one who took a Mussulman spear in his ribs at the siege of Gibraltar, let me assure you that it is not,” he said with a smile, “but you are clearly in some pain. Come.”
He took Eleanor’s arm and led her to the gateway of the inner ward. She was conscious of many pairs of amused eyes watching her as they left, and prayed that Garci had nothing shameful in mind.
His suite of private rooms was on an upper floor of the castle, and he dispatched a page boy to escort her there while he paid his respects to his lord. The page took her to an antechamber, where he informed Eleanor that Don Garci was wont to entertain guests, and left her there to admire the furnishings.
There was much to admire: the walls were hung with tapestries depicting Biblical and hunting scenes, worked in red and gold thread, and a suit of twinkling golden mail hung on a stand in one corner. A small table stood in the middle of the room, covered by a white linen cloth, and on the table was a chessboard made from a block of pure white marble. The pieces were elaborately carved from silver and ebon
y. Light from the rose-red fire crackling in the hooded hearth blazed inside the translucent White King as he cowered behind his pawns.
The contrast between this opulence and Don Enrique’s broken castle in the Cantabrian Mountains could not have been greater. Eleanor felt a pang of envy as she looked around the room. This, she realized, was how she wished to live – surrounded by wealth and power and beauty, not as some ragged fugitive in the wild, or as a spy, manipulated by powerful men and then cast aside once her usefulness was exhausted.
Garci entered the room carrying a jug of wine. He gave Eleanor a knowing look, and poured two generous measures into a pair of elegantly chased pewter goblets standing on a side-table.
“My lord is ill,” he said, handing Eleanor one of the cups, “a sickness came over him suddenly while we were out hunting. He shivers like a man suffering from an ague, and has taken to his bed.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” Eleanor said politely, though she wasn’t, much. Vile as King Pedro might be, she had heard little to the credit of Núñez, and wondered why a man like Garci would serve him.
Don Garci took a sip of his wine and gave her another of his searching looks. “Cesario of Leon,” he said, ruefully shaking his head, “it’s not a bad story, but needed work. As for your disguise, only a born fool could fail to see through it. Now, madam, will you tell me your true name and the reason you were on the road, masquerading as a soldier?”
Eleanor put down her cup and started for the door, but Don Garci barred her way. “Wait,” he laughed, “there is no danger here. I’m not offended by your deception.”
Like the boar in the forest earlier, she stood at bay, uncertain and looking around wildly for an escape route. There was none, save the green door at the opposite end of the room that led to Garci’s bedchamber.
She flushed at the thought of venturing in there. A similar thought must have occurred to Garci. He took a step closer, slowly placed the tip of his index finger under her chin and tilted her head up for closer inspection.
“Far too pretty for a boy,” he murmured, “even with your hair shorn.”
Eleanor hardly dared to move, and was conscious of her heart beating far too quickly as his soft blue eyes roved over her body.
“Tell me your name,” he asked quietly, stroking the line of her jaw with his thumb.
“Eleanor,” she whispered, “daughter of Don Esteban de Menezes, of Alonchel.”
His eyes widened. “I remember him, at Rio Salado. He took a wound that crippled him, and won the favour of King Alfonso. Well, well, so you are his child. Wait, though! You were betrothed to a nobleman of Toledo.”
She risked a little smile. “So I was, but I flew away.”
In spite of his age, Don Garci was still a handsome man, and Eleanor found that she didn’t object to his touch. She also noticed a red flush creeping up the side of his neck, and that his hand was trembling slightly. Another woman might have been afraid, but she was amused by the effect she was having on him.
“Were you married, before you took flight?” he asked. His voice had acquired a thick, slightly inebriated quality to it that had nothing to do with wine. She shook her head and smiled at him.
The smile remained fixed in place when he gently gathered her into his arms and kissed her, and when he took her by the hand and led her towards the green door.
10.
Don Garci enjoyed a reputation for being an honourable man, and so he was, according to his own notions of honour. He had a wife, Leonor, but had packed her off to oversee his estates in the country. She was not present in Burgos to be shamed by his affair with Eleanor. It was by no means unusual for noblemen to take mistresses, and there were few who commented adversely on the willowy young girl who had suddenly appeared by his side.
For Eleanor’s part, she was happy to be petted and paraded by the great man, even if he was some thirty years her senior, and to be admitted to the physical aspect of love that had so far passed her by. Garci was kind and gentle to her, and showered her with expensive clothes and gifts.
“Grow your hair again,” he said, sighing as he ran his hand over her cropped scalp, “long, shining black tresses tumbling loose to your shoulders, to go with your dark eyes. The rest of you will be decked out in white and gold. Such stark contrasts! Such beauty!”
Eleanor, who was naked as a needle, laughed and performed a mock now. “As you wish, lord,” she said, blowing him a kiss, and skipped away featly when he reached for her. She swiftly became an expert at teasing him, and servicing his lust only when she felt like it. That way, she reasoned, he was unlikely to grow bored of his young mistress, and he was too chivalrous to force himself on her.
Weeks passed. Eleanor barely left his chambers except to escort him to meals in the Great Hall. This, he explained, he would never have done had his lord been fit to attend, but Núñez was still confined to his sickbed, and his condition was said to be deteriorating.
Of Eleanor’s past Garci asked little, and she told him even less. Perhaps the fact that he was bedding another man’s betrothed played on his conscience, for he was of a free and easy disposition and didn’t like to dwell on awkward truths. Instead he spoke of his past fighting the Muslims under old King Alfonso. She found his constant replaying of old battles tedious, but there were plenty of comforts to distract her.
Eleanor was becoming complacent, and in her youthful naiveté made the mistake of assuming their situation could last forever. Their idyll was shattered by the arrival of the long-expected news that King Pedro was indeed marching on Burgos at the head of a great host. Eleanor was not surprised by that, but shocked when she discovered the identity of the messenger.
She was drowsing contentedly on Garci’s great bed, her rich clothes scattered about the floor, when she heard raised voices coming from the antechamber. Intrigued, she swung her legs off the mattress, snatched up one of her lover’s fur-trimmed robes and belted it around her as she crept to the door.
The door was slightly ajar, and she peered through it to see Garci’s massive back as he stood in the middle of the room, gesturing animatedly as he talked. The blood drained from Eleanor’s face as she recognized the other man with him.
She would have known Don Carillo’s angelic features anywhere, even under the dust and grime of the road and several weeks’ growth of beard. Since arriving in Burgos, Eleanor had all but forgotten him. His sudden and unexpected appearance filled her with a sense of outrage, and any notion of caution deserted her as she pushed the door open and stalked into the room.
He blanched at the sight of her. “Eleanor,” he said quietly, raising a hand as though to ward her off, “so you are here. Enrique thought you had been killed. I see now that you have either neglected your mission, or performed it phenomenally well.”
“What is this?” demanded Don Garci, turning to frown at Eleanor, “do you two know each other? Eleanor, you should have kept to your room.”
“She was with me and Enrique in the mountains,” said Carillo before Eleanor could speak, “and before that, with King Pedro in Algeciras. Her brother, Charles, is a knight in the Order of Santiago. In truth, she is a sly and secretive creature, and I have never trusted her.”
Eleanor was astonished to hear Carillo talk of her in such unfavourable terms, and at his hypocrisy: for a man who took great pride in his knightly honour, Carillo had been less than honest with her, and failed to inform her that he was Garci’s brother-in-law.
“I have never given you any reason to distrust me,” she said, drawing the robe tighter about her.
“Madam, you are a spy, and even your brother expressed doubts as to whose side you were really on,” he replied in a venomous tone, “what noble lady creeps about the land in disguise, serving first one master, and then another? Now I find you here. What am I to think?”
“Have a care, Pero,” murmured Garci, but Eleanor was in no mood for restraint.
“I am just as surprised to find you here!” she cried, stamping her foo
t, “Enrique said nothing to me of sending you to Burgos. Were you dispatched to spy on me, then, to ensure I did not betray him?”
“Be quiet, both of you,” snapped Garci, “I will not endure this squabbling. Don Carillo, you say that she has served both King Pedro and Don Enrique. Very well. Why did Enrique send her to Burgos in the guise of a man?”
“To join the cabelleros villanos,” Carillo replied, “and ascertain if the people of the city would acclaim the Lord of Biscay as King.”
Garci did not seem surprised. “Indeed? But instead, she fell in with me while I was out hunting. I must say, she has made little effort to join the villanos.”
He swung around to confront Eleanor, who shrank away as the huge knight loomed over her, his eyes suddenly full of judgment and suspicion. “Don Carillo has asked a fair question, my love. Whose side are you really on?”
Eleanor mastered her fear of him, and lifted her face to meet his glare. “I am on my side,” she replied, “and the side of whoever pays me most.”
She knew that Garci loved courage, and indeed he started to smile, but Carillo was not so impressed. “There is a word for a woman who follows such a path,” he cried, but fell silent as Garci lifted a finger in warning.
“Indeed there is,” he said softly, “but you will not utter it in my presence. Who I choose to lie with is my affair, do you understand?”
“Perfectly,” Carillo replied, masking his anger, and from that moment Eleanor ceased to exist for him.
“Good,” said Garci, “since that is settled, we may turn to the more pressing matter of King Pedro. But not, I think, in your presence, my dear. You must sleep in the servant’s quarters tonight.”
Eleanor felt a stab to her heart. Carillo’s revelations had obviously caused Garci to distrust her, and he looked at her now with the same expression that her brother Charles had worn, when she advised him to lie to their father. To be suspected by those she loved – and she did feel a kind of love for Garci Laso, mingled with greed and lust – pained her deeply.
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