Equipped, provisioned, and rested, they set off the next day. At first, the wilful defiance of the king's decree made the ride seem daring and eventful. But as the days passed, the continual vigilance and stealth began to pale-much like the sun-struck wilderness through which they journeyed: a dust-dulled aridity of empty hills and parched valleys filled with tinder-dry plants in subdued shades of ochre and tan and brown.
Because of their greater numbers, the company travelled more slowly than before. The Spanish knights knew many songs and games, and enjoyed teaching them to their Norse swordbrothers. They told stories about the people and places of old Galicia, often vying with one another to see who could tell the most outrageous lies about their homeland. The weather remained warm and dry, the fiery heat of summer slowly giving way to the fresh, cool days of autumn.
As before, they met neither bandits nor pilgrims, and had the road to themselves from dawn's first gleam to twilight's last glimmer. Thus, the days passed pleasantly, if not as swiftly as Cait would have liked. If not for the fact that the cost of provisions threatened to overwhelm her ready resources, Cait would have enjoyed the journey far more.
Keeping everyone fed and watered became the occupying concern of each and every day. The supplies disappeared at a shocking rate, and Cait began to feel she had made a grave mistake taking on the extra men and horses.
Fortunately, finding good water for so many thirsty throats posed no difficulty; the road was rarely out of sight of a stream or river. Although most had dwindled to little more than a trickle awaiting the autumn rains, at least the animals could be easily watered and the knights were not forced to spend the greater part of every day searching for wells, springs, or drinking holes.
Likewise, once they entered the Ebro valley they could follow the substantial Rio Ebro to Logrono-another once-magnificent Roman town which had decayed under the long years of Muhammedan dominion. Upon reaching Logrono they stopped to bathe, wash their clothes, rest, and replenish provisions. As at Palencia, the travellers were welcomed with genuine warmth by the local citizenry who had not seen any travellers for many months and were eager for news of the wider world. During their brief stay, Cait followed Brother Matthias' advice to consult the abbot at the local monastery about the road ahead. The trails beyond Logrofio into the lower valley, and eastward into the mountains, were not so well travelled as those they had used so far, and Cait was grateful for any knowledge of the most likely stopping-places along the way.
Because the abbot was not receptive to the idea of women visiting his scriptorium and holding converse with the monks under his charge, he declined to allow Cait to join the visiting party, so Rognvald and Matthias went in her stead.
'They say we can get meat and meal at Milagro on the Rio Aragon,' Rognvald told her on the eve of their departure. He and Matthias had spent most of the day studying the monastery's maps and charts of the region. 'And then again at Carcastillo.'
'It is four days to Milagro,' Matthias said, 'and Carcastillo is two or three days beyond that.'
'We will stop there,' said Cait. 'Our provisions will last that long at least.'
'The abbot suggests stopping at both places,' the knight offered. 'Once we are into the mountains it will become very difficult. We will get nothing more until Berdun and then but little.'
'But with fewer in our party,' Cait pointed out, 'that should not become a problem.'
'Ah, yes,' said Rognvald, glancing secretively at the monk, 'I have been meaning to speak to you about that very thing.'
'Yes?' Cait regarded him dubiously.
'I have been thinking that it would be good to keep the Spanish knights with us.'
'Oh, no,' declared Cait. 'I agreed they could come with us this far, but no further. They must go back.' Although she enjoyed their genial and entertaining presence, the Spanish knights cost a great deal more than she had anticipated.
'They are good warriors,' said Rognvald.
'They are good trenchermen, it seems to me,' countered Cait. 'We have not seen so much as a Moorish shadow since leaving Santiago. Do not think me a pinchfist in this matter. I enjoy their companionship as much as anyone, but it comes at a price-nearly two hundred marks since joining us.'
The knight frowned, but held his tongue.
'Lady Caitriona,' said Matthias, 'forgive me if I speak above my place. But the abbot has strenuously advised us to turn back. He says the mountain passes have become very dangerous in these last days with many lawless and evil men waiting to prey on unwary travellers.'
'With such an army as I possess, we are far from unwary,' Cait pointed out.
'All the more reason to retain the Spanish warriors-if they are willing.' Regarding Cait with sly solemnity, he added, 'It is but a small price to pay for the saving of the Blessed Cup.'
His mention of the sacred relic brought a twinge to Cait's raw conscience. Matthias did not yet know her true intentions for the vessel. She hesitated; to insist on sending half her force away might arouse the priest's suspicions regarding the nature of the enterprise which had caught him up. Until she had the cup in her possession, she could not risk losing his aid and affection. Turning to Rognvald, she asked, 'Do you commend it, my lord?'
'Most heartily, I do,' he replied.
'Very well, then,' she decided. 'Speak to the men. If they are willing, and agree to abide your command, then they may continue for as long as necessary.'
Thus, when she and Alethea rode out of the gate the next morning to resume the journey, they did so with a company of twenty horses and pack mules, ten knights, and one priest and an interpreter driving a wagon laden with supplies of food and drink. By Cait's rough reckoning, enough ready gold and silver remained from that which she had brought from her father's chest to allow them to reach their destination-so long as it was no further than Matthias' vague intimations. What they would do after that, she did not know.
This cast her into a melancholy, fretful mood-a condition that did not improve when, day after day, they failed to be confronted by any of the region's much-feared bandits. Indeed, they met with no greater mishap than a sudden drenching when the sky opened and dumped a month's supply of rain on them in two days. Riding was so miserable that they camped for a day and a half, staying in their tents for the most part, until the weather cleared and they could continue. The rains filled the all-but-empty river basins, and made fording the streams more of a problem than before. At one crossing the wagon struck a submerged rock and pitched Abu headlong into the rapids; an alert Dag flew after him and plucked him sputtering from the water a few hundred paces downstream.
Each day, they moved on, following the track as it rose slowly higher and yet higher into the hills. The women gradually became accustomed to life on the trail. Cait learned to sleep with her sword, and Alethea eventually ceased complaining about each small discomfort; both became adept at darting quickly into trailside bushes to attend to their more intimate needs, rejoining the company before anyone knew they had gone. The knights grew used to one another's ways, and an easy camaraderie developed between them which made the daily tasks of establishing and breaking camp tolerable, if not enjoyable. From time to time, as the mood took him, Brother Matthias preached and recited Psalms, and he taught the Norsemen simple hymns in Spanish. Despite the ever-worsening weather, everyone remained in good spirits for the most part.
Upon arriving at the place where the rivers joined, they turned north to follow the Rio Aragon up into the foothills of the Sierra de Guara, pausing briefly at the hilltown of Milagro, where, in order to conserve her dwindling supply of gold and silver coins, Cait made the knights work for the townspeople. In exchange for the necessary provisions, the men mended walls, fixed leaking roofs, and chopped firewood for the coming winter. After a week they had accumulated enough supplies, and the company moved on.
The weather in the high hill country was growing damp and windy. Matthias' staunch refusal to tell them precisely where they were going began to rankle Cait more and
more. The priest was adamant that the location must remain a secret to the very end, but intimated that their final destination was still a good many days beyond Carcastillo. So, at their next stop they took the opportunity to trade labour for goods-this time in order to obtain heavy cloaks made from the dense wool of the region's sheep. Both Cait and Alethea thought the cloaks smelly beyond belief-an unappealing mixture of rancid fat and burnt dung-but the cloaks were warm even when wet, and kept the sharpening wind at bay. As the party ascended ever upward into the cooler heights, the women slowly became accustomed to wearing the noisome garments through the day and, more often than not, sleeping under them at night as well.
The weather became steadily cooler as autumn advanced; the skies grew dark and moody, and often there was rain-sometimes in fierce pelting bursts, and sometimes in dismal misty drizzle which set in early and lingered, making everyone and everything miserable, wet, and cold. Alone among the members of the company, Brother Matthias seemed not to mind the discomfort. In fact, he revelled in it, regarding the mild distress as a chastening discipline. The worse the storm, the louder he sang his psalms and chants, sometimes delivering whole sermons to the sodden, empty trail and drifting clouds. The Spanish knights apparently derived great satisfaction from this curious demonstration, a thing which Cait could not understand.
'How far?' Cait demanded of the priest one evening. They had stopped at a clearing beside the muddy rivulet which was their trail, and the knights were making camp after a dreary day's ride. Abu was trying to light a fire, and most of the Spanish knights were searching the nearby forest for dry wood. The low grey sky threatened yet more rain and the ground was soggy underfoot. The looming peaks rising in the near distance were wreathed in fog, and the wind among the rocks and canyons soughed with a desolate whine.
'Not far now,' he replied with an exuberance that set her teeth on edge. 'A few more days.'
'How many days?' she said stubbornly. 'I want to know. You are leading us there anyway, so you may as well end this absurd secrecy and tell me how much longer we must endure this incessant rain and chill.'
Matthias regarded her with soulful, compassionate eyes. 'Peace, you are disturbed over nothing. We will arrive in God's good time, never fear.'
'Oh, I am not disturbed,' Cait insisted, her voice threatening and low. 'My feet are wet, my clothes are muddy, I am cold and tired, and I do not think it too much to ask how far we have yet to travel. Is it two days? Ten? Twenty?'
'Sister,' the monk said, 'calm yourself. There is no -'
'I am not your sister. I am your patron, and I want an answer.'
Alethea came rushing up just then. 'Cait, what is wrong? Why are you shouting at Brother Matthias?'
'All is well,' the priest told her. 'It is a misunderstanding, nothing more.' He laid a soothing hand on Cait's arm. 'Forgive me, my lady. By my estimation, we are perhaps six days from our destination. No more than ten.'
'Six or ten days,' Cait repeated dully, removing his hand from her arm.
'Fifteen at the most.'
'Which is it, priest?' demanded Cait. 'Ten? Fifteen? Five hundred?'
'It is difficult to say, my lady. So much depends on the weather. The mountain trails can be treacherous this time of year.'
'Aghh!' Cait cried in frustration, and fled the conversation.
Rognvald caught up with her as she stormed from the camp. 'Is something wrong, my lady?'
'No,' she snapped, charging through the underbrush into the woods. 'Nothing what so ever.' She spat each word as if it were a pellet of venom. 'All is happening in God's good time,' she said, adopting the mincing tone of a dissembling cleric. 'Apparently!' She shoved aside a low-hanging pine bough and let it fly.
The knight walked along beside her a few paces. 'We could remain in camp tomorrow if you like,' he suggested, 'and move on when the weather improves.'
'Why must you always take his side?'
'His side? God's side?'
'No – him' She jerked her head in the direction of the monk who was now talking blithely to a warmly receptive Alethea. 'The idiot priest!'
'I take no one's side without due cause and consideration,' the Norseman told her firmly.
She glared at him, and surged on ahead. Rognvald started after her again. 'Leave me alone!' she said, turning on him. 'A woman needs a little privacy now and then-have you ever considered that?'
Rognvald begged her pardon and retreated. She went on until she came to a thick bank of elder bushes. Loosening her girdle and swordbelt, she removed her small-clothes, then hitched up her cloak, mantle, and shift, and was preparing to squat when she heard the shriek. At first she thought it the cry of a hunting eagle, for the sound seemed to have fallen from the low sky overhead. She listened, holding her breath. In a moment, it came again.
'Thea!'
Hurrying, she rearranged her clothes once more, and ran back along the track. She had wandered further than she knew. It took longer than she expected to reach the camp and as she drew nearer she heard men shouting and the clash of arms-the unmistakable sounds of battle. The camp was under attack.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Cait flew back through the woods. As she neared the fighting, she crouched low, and hid behind a tree. The half-finished camp was swarming with dark men in dark brown cloaks. Moors, she thought, counting them quickly. There were eight-and all were mounted. Two or three of the bandits held spears; the rest wielded swords and they were swooping among the knights who were struggling to fend off the marauders.
Occupied with setting up camp for the night, none of the defenders had been wearing armour when the attack began. As a result, they were only lightly armed. Most had, she saw, been able to lay hand to a sword, but none had shields, and only Rognvald had a horse.
The clash of weapons was fierce, and the shouts of the men to one another, and to their assailants, deafening; the commotion filled the clearing with a dreadful, disorienting clamour.
Above the tumult, there came another ear-shattering shriek and Cait looked to the partially erected tent. Alethea was kneeling at the tent opening, hands to her face, terrified. Dag stood before her, tent pole in hand, defending her from two swarthy assailants. Yngvar and Svein were running to join him. Just as they reached the tent, however, two mounted bandits caught them and they were forced to break off their assault to defend themselves.
The horses were picketed nearby. None had saddles, but Cait had ridden bareback from childhood. Darting to the line, she untied the nearest mount, swung herself up on to its back, drew her sword, and raced for the tent. Her attack was cut short, however, when a black-bearded Moor suddenly appeared before her and, with one swipe of his sword, knocked her weapon from her hand.
The slender blade went spinning to the ground, and the bandit, seeing that she was unarmed, reached for the bridle of her horse. Cait slashed the reins across his face, catching him on the side of the head as he leaned forward. He drew back with a curse between his teeth, and jabbed at her with the sword. She dodged aside easily, and the bandit lunged forward, snagging the bridle strap of her mount. She pulled back hard on the reins, attempting to make her horse rear, but the bandit clung on, keeping the animal's head down.
The wild-eyed brute swung around beside her, thrusting the sword at her and shouting in Arabic as he made to lead her horse away, taking her with him. Throwing aside the reins, she slid lightly off the back of the horse, landed on her feet, and started for the tent once more.
She had run but a half-dozen steps when she felt the ground tremble beneath her feet, the same instant a jarring thud between her shoulderblades lifted her off the ground. She squirmed in the air as the bandit tried to haul her on to his horse. Swinging wildly, she struck out at her attacker with her fists, striking him in the ribs. She swung again and her knuckles grazed something sharp. Twisting in her assailant's grasp, she reached for the place once more and her fingers closed on the hilt of a dagger.
The knife was out of the sheath before the Mo
or knew what had happened. Squeezing the hilt, she raised her arm and plunged the blade down into the meaty part of the bandit's thigh. With an astonished cry of pain and rage, her would-be captor hurled her to the ground and the knife went spinning from her grasp. She landed hard on her side, forcing the breath from her lungs.
Gasping, her chest aching, unable to breathe, she drew up her knees and cradled her head in her arms to prevent the horse's hooves from dashing out her brains. A loud whirring filled her ears, and she felt herself slipping away-as if sucked down into a dark, spinning maelstrom beneath violent waves. The whirring sound ended in a sudden crash and she felt something heavy fall upon her.
Cait could not move; the upper half of her body was trapped beneath a dense weight and when she turned her head to look, she saw the bearded Moor's sweaty face leering back at her. She felt a rush of warmth flood across her chest and stomach and looked down to see the bandit's body lying across her own, blood and bile spilling from a gash that split his torso from side to side below the ribs.
She struggled to push free of the dead weight, but it held her to the ground. A veil of darkness descended across her vision and the clash of battle grew fainter-as if the fight was swiftly receding with the onrush of night. And then the crushing burden suddenly lifted from her and she was free. Air rushed into her lungs and her vision cleared, revealing Rognvald's worried face hovering above her.
Gathering her in his arms, he raised her up. 'I can walk,' she gasped, gulping in air. 'I am not hurt.'
'This way,' he said, placing her back on her feet. Holding tight to her hand, he pulled her quickly to the edge of the clearing. 'Get down,' he said, indicating a hollow place formed by a tree growing between two big rocks. Crouching low, she leaned back into the hollow, and with a quick chop of his sword Rognvald lopped a branch from the tree and put it over her, shielding her from view. 'Stay here,' he said, dashing away again.
As soon as he had gone, Cait bent back the branches so she could see. Across the clearing, the attack appeared to be intensifying. Where before she had counted eight, there were now at least twelve, possibly more – with all of them constantly circling and swirling they were difficult to reckon. Never attacking straight on, they struck glancing blows, darting in and disappearing-only to reappear again a moment later, attacking from a different quarter.
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