This would be the night. She had only to contrive their meeting.
The wedding vows were exchanged and the mass celebrated, the midday meal served with ceremony and the wine from Kinfairlie consumed. It was a fine day and the company was reluctant to leave the board and the camaraderie to be found there. Elizabeth was glad to see Malcolm so pleased. There was a lull in the conversation, a moment when some soul would call for a tale, and Elizabeth seized the moment to draw Rafael’s eye back to herself.
She rose to her feet and raised her voice. “Rafael Rodriguez, when last we sat at this board, we heard the Song of Roland, and you declared Charlemagne to be no hero as you knew heroes to be. Would you tell us of a hero you admire?”
The men broke into applause at this notion. In this, Elizabeth knew she would discern more of Rafael’s truth, for whatsoever a man admired revealed his secret heart.
As she had expected, Rafael took his time before he replied. He finished his cup of wine, then swept to his feet and bowed to her. “I am no teller of tales, nor am I a troubadour, but I cannot deny a lady her request.”
“You told a fine tale the other day,” Elizabeth reminded him.
Rafael’s smile flashed, making him look dangerous and unpredictable. “Perhaps I was inspired by the curiosity of a beautiful maiden,” he said.
The company cheered again and Rafael strolled down the length of the hall to halt before her. He was so handsome and virile, his gaze so steady upon her, that once again Elizabeth’s toes curled in her slippers. He offered his hand and she placed hers within it, feeling almost dizzy when he kissed the back of her fingers.
Then he spun to face the company, his short cloak flaring out around him, his steps measured. He pivoted to face her and smiled at her so that her heart fluttered. “In Spain, my lady Elizabeth, we tell of the greatest hero of all, one Rodrigo Diaz de Vívar.”
“Rodrigo Diaz de Vívar,” Elizabeth whispered, finding the words exotic on her tongue.
“El Cid!” roared one of the mercenaries and a group of them thumped their fists on the board in approval. Elizabeth glanced to the Sable League in confusion for she did not know this tale.
Rafael inclined his head to them. “Mío Cid,” he corrected. “Il Campeador.”
“What does that mean?” Elizabeth asked after she repeated both phrases.
Rafael smiled. “They say he was called Mío Cid, by the Moors, for they so admired his skills at making war that even in defeat, they acknowledged his valor. There were Moors also serving in his armies for the same reason. Sidi is their word for champion, but all the men of Castile I have ever known have called him Mío Cid, my lord or champion, a variant of the Moorish. Il Campeador is the Castilian for the champion, and is the title used by troubadours.” He lifted a brow and Elizabeth nodded that she understood, impatient for him to continue.
“I like tales of champions,” she said with a smile. “Particularly of those men who have chosen to be champions.”
Rafael inclined his head, then paced in front of the high table. His voice was rich and carried over the hall easily. “Rodrigo was born in Vívar, a town near Burgos, in the years when the Moors held much of the southern lands known as Andalusia. He was raised in the court of the Castilian king, Ferdinand I, and later in the court of Ferdinand’s son, Sancho. It was there he learned to treat women with dignity and honor, regardless of their status, and all his life, he cleaved to that principle.”
Elizabeth counted one trait that Rafael shared with his hero, for he had been most gracious to her.
“In those days, the land was divided and the lords at war. There were Christian kingdoms in Iberia, mighty Castile as well as neighboring Léon and Galicia. All were unified under the hand of Ferdinand I, but upon his death, his territories were divided between his three sons, as was oft the practice. Sancho ascended to the throne of Castile; Alfonso was granted the throne of Léon and Garcia was given the crown of Galicia. From that moment, each brother was consumed with the desire to claim what had been granted to his brethren, and to unify his father’s kingdom, but under his own hand. At the same time, these kings also made war against the cities held by the Moors, hoping to conquer again the territories and claim the wealth rumored to be within their walls, for war has need of coin to see it funded.”
This, Elizabeth realized, was where Rafael had learned that aristocratic brothers did not assist each other. Perhaps he had expected Alexander to besiege Ravensmuir and claim the new keep for his own, as well as keep the horses at Kinfairlie. She was glad his assumption had been challenged.
“Rodrigo knew that his future would be one of war, and he strove to become the best warrior of his comrades. He was made royal standard-bearer for Sancho on that king’s ascent to the throne, but soon Rodrigo showed his military prowess. He led so many campaigns against the other two kings and their forces and was victorious so often that he became famous for his success. His victories made Sancho more powerful and Castile ever larger, so Rodrigo was well-rewarded for his triumphs. He had riches and homes, servants and more horses than a man could ever ride. He rose ever higher in the ranks of Sancho’s army, serving the king at court with his own hand when he was not at war. And so it was in Sancho’s court that he met the woman who captured his heart. It is said that when Rodrigo saw Doña Ximena for the first time, he was struck with a love that would burn through all his days and nights.”
Rafael clenched his fist and pounded his chest in a gesture that thrilled Elizabeth. “No other woman would suffice. No other woman could command his love. Because Rodrigo had every advantage to his hand, even though he was not so nobly born as she, her father consented that she should wed this knight. They were wedded, and her family was convinced that her future could not be better assured. Of course, it was not.”
Rafael paused to clear his throat. The hall was rapt. One of the mercenaries passed him a cup of wine and he sipped of it before continuing. “King Sancho died young, suddenly and without a son. And so it was that the kingdom of Castile was bequeathed to Sancho’s brother, King Alfonso of Léon, the very king whom Rodrigo had defeated so soundly so many times. Alfonso did not take kindly to having the man who had conquered his armies so often within his own court. And so it was that Alfonso exiled Mío Cid forever from the unified kingdom of Castile and Léon.”
Elizabeth gasped at this, but Rafael slanted her a simmering glance. She had no time to draw a conclusion from this before Rafael presented one to her. “And here we see that a man can fight with valor and serve his lord with honor, yet be cheated of all he would hold dear. His wealth was seized by the new king, the portal of his own house locked against him, and no one would speak to him in his home. His wife and daughters even had been sent to a monastery by the king, so he was denied the sight of his beloved as well.”
And this was how Rafael came to believe that fortune was fleeting. Elizabeth locked her hands together in her lap.
“Mío Cid was not one to admit defeat, however. He had a week of grace to leave Burgos, the city where kings kept the high court of Castile, and he used every moment of it. He could have disappeared into the hills and lived like a brigand, but it was not within him to retreat from a battle. Instead, Mío Cid resolved that he would make himself a kingdom, where his fate could not be turned by one man’s whim or another, where his beloved wife and his daughters could be safe forevermore. He would earn a fortune to ensure his daughters had fine dowries, and he would see them wedded to men of honor and valor. And to do this, he would leave Castile and his wife behind, in order to build the future he desired for his own.”
Elizabeth recognized that Rodrigo had sold his blade to see to the security of those reliant upon him. That was a noble objective, and she wondered if Rafael had a similarly noble goal.
Rafael spoke with ferocity as he eyed Alexander. “Rodrigo became a mercenary and an outlaw by choice, because the alternative made his heart bleed. He had a wife and two daughters. He would not see them abandoned, impoverished or des
poiled. He would not see them trapped under the thumb of a king who despised their father.” Alexander nodded in understanding of this inclination, though Elizabeth could see her brother still did not approve.
“And so, Mío Cid summoned the men who had served him. And he raised his voice before them, pledging that he would share with them whatever riches they gained, that he would see them treated with dignity, that he would request their blades be sworn to his service. He offered them the choice to follow him or nay. And so it was that the entire town of Burgos rang with the chorus of their agreement, and King Alfonso in his palace wondered at the noise. The king was said to have come to the window in time to see the finest flower of chivalry ride through the gates of the town, the best of his army leaving his service to follow Mío Cid.”
The mercenaries grinned at this, nodding approval of the men’s choice to follow such a leader.
“Mío Cid camped across the river from Burgos for three days and three nights, calling for men to join him. He sent out runners to all of Castile and Léon, extending his offer to all valiant warriors. Knights rode to his banner, his camp swelling a little more each day. Townspeople crept out at night to bring provisions to the camp, for all the town believed that the greatest warrior of all had been disserved but they were afraid to defy the king in daylight. Two hundred knights were pledged to Rodrigo before even he left Burgos. On the morning of the fourth day, the hills echoed with the thunder of hoof beats as Mío Cid’s army rode away from Burgos and toward the border of Castile. He went first to the monastery where his wife and daughters were staying, and told Doña Ximena of his plan. She wept that they would be so parted, but took him and his men to the chapel to pray for their success. He left all his coin with his lady wife, that she would have riches whatever his fate. When he left, she stood proudly to watch him go, tears running down her lovely face, and the pain of parting for Mío Cid was like that of having his nails pulled from fingers. Three hundred knights followed him, even knowing that, for they knew he would share whatever spoils they gained.”
There it was again, the notion that a woman’s love could be the anchor to a warrior’s life, and the conviction that a wife should be both honored and defended. Elizabeth smiled with her surety that Rafael would treat her well.
“They took Casteion immediately, for the townspeople surrendered to Mío Cid rather than battle against the famous warrior. Here he gained three thousand marks in tribute, plus herds to feed his army. He freed the Moors in that town, for he did not wish them to speak ill of him, dispersed the coin to his knights, and rode on. So it was at Alcocer and other towns, so it was that he rode from victory to victory, his wealth ever growing, his grace undiminished, his generosity well-known. The Moors he freed often joined his forces, those men who had joined him as foot soldiers rose to become knights in their own right, all sworn to his hand saw their fortunes increase. Mío Cid regained all he had lost and more, and better, this time no man could take it from him.”
Rafael wagged a finger at the company. “And here he showed his mettle, for he was not a man to keep all riches for himself, or to forget alliances. Still he believed himself to be the vassal of King Alfonso, for that man was king of Castile. He sent tribute to that king, fine warhorses and gifts of gold and treasure, and Alfonso marveled at this.” Rafael raised his brows. “He accepted the gifts, but did not relinquish his edict against Mío Cid.”
Rafael paused, no doubt to emphasize the faithlessness of this king. Elizabeth could only agree.
“So Mío Cid continued for three years, taking Xerica, Onda, Almenar, Murviedro, Cebola, Peña Cadiella...so many cities that I cannot recall all of their names. Always he sent tribute to Alfonso of Castile, the king he still considered to be his liege lord, but gained no reprieve from that king. And so it was that Mío Cid came to the city of Valencia, with ten thousand knights sworn to his service, and laid siege to that town of marvels and riches.”
“Have you been there?” Elizabeth asked.
Rafael nodded, prompting her desire to see the city herself. “Of course. It is as beauteous as it is reputed to be. It was built first by the Romans, called Valentia in honor of valor of the soldiers who first claimed that territory. The Moors call it Medina bu-Tarab, which means City of Joy.” His lips tightened even as Elizabeth tried the exotic name on her tongue. “Though it was no place of joy for me.”
She blinked, but Rafael had spun away. He paced the floor, as the company waited, and continued tersely. “It was a siege, as a siege always will be, the roads secured so well that naught went in and naught went out. They lacked grain in the city, and had no bread, though there was wine and fruit to be sure. It was believed that the King of the Moors in Morocco would send aid, but he did not. He heard the cries of his brethren, there was no doubt of that for messengers did escape, but so fearful was he of Mío Cid, that he did not reply.” Rafael examined the toe of his boot. “During war is when the true measure of a man can be seen, as well as the strength of any alliance.”
Again, Elizabeth saw how Rafael had gained his expectation that others could not be trusted or relied upon. How lonely his life must have been! No wonder he was so wary of making bonds with others.
“The city fell to Mío Cid, and surely the inhabitants feared he would be vengeful as a reward for their defiance. But Rodrigo was a fair man to his dying day. His goal had been to have a kingdom of his own, and in Valencia, he established one. Again, he freed the Moors who had surrendered with the town. He dispensed the spoils amongst his knights and granted coin even to the Moors, for he did not wish them to starve. He bade them choose, whether to remain or to leave, for he would rule Valencia from that day forward. He elevated a priest to be bishop of Valencia, so that all could receive the sacraments, and converted nine mosques to churches.”
This was Rafael’s notion of responsible leadership. Elizabeth approved heartily of it.
“Valencia was attacked soon afterward, by the King of Seville, but even though that king rode with thirty thousand warriors, he was defeated, and his coin swelled the treasury of Mío Cid’s new kingdom. He sent for his beloved wife and his daughters, and they arrived in triumph, Doña Ximena joyously embracing her beloved husband and champion before the entire town. In Valentia he made his home and defended it from all who would steal or taint it. From Valentia, he saw his daughters well-wed with fine dowries, to men who would honor them well. In Valentia, he ruled until he died and he died in its defense, leaving Doña Ximena to rule in his stead.”
Rafael turned to face the high table, his stance proud. Elizabeth’s heart pounded. Here was a fine example of marriage, in her view, for Rafael’s hero had treated his wife as his equal partner and Rafael saw this to be good.
This warrior would suit her well as spouse, indeed.
“And this is a hero to hold high, in my estimation,” Rafael concluded in a ringing voice. “He was a man both lethal in war and fair to those he vanquished, a fearless man who made his life as he would have it be.”
Elizabeth did not miss the quick piercing glance Rafael sent her way as he said the word “fearless.”
She stood up, undaunted by his stern manner. “He was a man loyal to those he held within his heart,” she said and saw Rafael start. “A man who treated women with honor and a man who labored as a mercenary only after Dame Fortune turned against him.” She saw Rafael’s surprise at what she had taken of this tale. “He was a man who treated his wife as his partner and confidante, a man who kept his word, and a man who was kind to those beneath his hand who had less advantage.” She lifted her cup. “I salute your champion, Mío Cid, and you for the telling of his tale, Rafael Rodriguez.”
The company roared agreement and lifted their cups to drink Elizabeth’s toast. Alexander passed a hand over his brow, but Elizabeth had eyes only for Rafael.
A heat lit in his eyes then, a fire that made her heart pound. He drank her toast, then strode down the length of the hall toward her to bow low in front of her. Elizabeth offered
her hand boldly and Rafael claimed it, his warm fingers closing over her own. His eyes gleamed, his smile made her heart thunder, then he kissed the back of her hand slowly.
That dangerous smile lifted the corner of his mouth, and his gaze locked so firmly upon her that Elizabeth was certain her dream would come true.
Fourteen
It was only a matter of time before Elizabeth sought him out. Rafael was content to wait, content to savor his anticipation. He felt young in a way he could scarce recall feeling before, both drawn to Elizabeth and wanting to make the fascination between them last as long as possible. She was beguiling and confident in a way that was alien to him, certain of her safety and trusting fully in those around her, all because of her childhood. He watched her dance, regretting that his experience had been so different.
Rafael would have liked to have been able to court this maiden of life and fire. He doubted he would have the opportunity, though. He expected that by the time he returned to Scotland—if indeed, he ever did—she would be wedded with children of her own, her merriment likely sacrificed to duty and the company of a dour man.
His gift of this night would ensure that she knew what best to demand of her legal spouse, and would warm her nights forevermore.
He had no doubt that he would recall this evening for all his days and nights. So he took heed of every detail, committing each and every one to memory.
He filled his memory palace with this night.
And this beguiling maiden.
Rafael let Elizabeth choose the moment they next spoke, for she would judge it best.
The lutenists struck the tune and the family from Kinfairlie led the dancing. Like most of the mercenaries, Rafael sat back. He savored the wine that had been poured, and the sight of Elizabeth as she danced. She was light on her feet, graceful and merry, a vision to entice any man. He lost track of her in the crowd for a single moment, and then she abruptly dropped to the bench beside him, her cheeks flushed and her eyes filled with expectation. His heart leaped, though he kept his expression guarded.
All's Fair in Love and War: Four Enemies-to-Lovers Medieval Romances Page 123
