Grudging (25 page)

Surprisingly, she flushed. “I think it will help. I've . . . I've never used it before. Mother said running water will help carry the sound of the Song. We won't have to get as close.” She looked at the sky. “And luckily the rain has stopped. Rain washes out the magic.”

He considered her as she gave him a weak little smile. She didn't sound very certain about any of it. Get caught, and they were as good as dead. He'd seen what the Northerners did to spies. His mother would say bypass around. Salvador would likely agree. The risk was too high versus the reward of saving a few miles. In this, however, he must take after his father. If the girl was to prove of any value, she had to be used and tested. Every second shaved off their journey might be important.

She had no confidence. By San Martin, he'd have to have the confidence for both of them. “We try it.”

“We do?” She blinked. “I mean, we do. Yes. I can throw them off . . . I think.”

What would his father do? Ramiro caught her chin with a finger and lifted her eyes to his. “You can and you will. Let's go.” He released her.

“Now?” she said weakly.

“Now.” He turned and edged through the grass to get closer to the stream, hearing her follow. No sense in making it harder on the girl. He led them upstream a distance to hopefully make her deception easier and give the Northerners less to see. “Is this spot good?”

Claire nodded, and a wordless hum rose from her throat. It cast no pictures in his mind, made him see no shadows, even when she added words to it. Words that teased at his brain, but which he couldn't understand. Perhaps because he expected the magic, she'd said something about its not working then. Nothing changed about him, but she nodded to indicate she was ready. He stepped from the saw grass and into the stream.

Slow and steady, he lifted his knees high, picking his way across the streambed of stones. Just a deer, unhurried as it crosses shallow water. As the singing girl followed, copying his movements, he froze like a surprised animal and looked directly at the Northerner encampment on the bridge. Ramiro held his breath. What were the odds they had bows, and he might turn out to be a freak surprise instead of a piece of meat for their cook fires?

But the men bustled about, ignoring them. One of the lookouts turned in their direction, lifting his hand in a yawn. Another man joined him and they stared directly toward their spot in the stream.

Ramiro started forward again, trying to keep his pace lazy and unafraid—­a wild thing who seldom saw a man.

Shouts came from the bridge. Ramiro's heart leaped.

Discovered.

But when he turned to look, he saw a big gray horse among the soldiers. Sancha! A Northerner shouted in their gruff language, the meaning clear: catch it.

Sancha reared and screamed, fending them off with her waving forelegs. Men with hands held up backed away, frightened of sharp hooves. She flashed between them like mist, a fleeting shadow as she dashed up the road. A last man dived for her trailing reins but missed.

Ramiro darted into the tall grass across the stream, pulling Claire with him. Somehow, she managed to hold her tune. “Hurry,” he urged her, running parallel to the road after his horse. Sancha must have broken free from Teresa somehow. The girl clung to his hand. He gave it a squeeze. “You did well, Claire.”

If they'd backtracked around the bridge, they'd never have learned Sancha was here. The saints favored them today. And that same hair-­raising feeling now told him Sancha would come for his whistle once out of the Northerners' earshot.

Maybe luck did favor them after all.

 

CHAPTER 27

A
mid the buzz of a thousand voices, Julian climbed the steps to the pulpit of the largest cathedral in Colina Hermosa. Behind him, the
concejales
waited at the altar under the center of the high, curved apse dome. The altar statuary embossed in gold and silver and painted in bright colors rose up three stories on the wall, depicting images of the greatest saints. A full-­figure representation of Santiago clasping a book was placed front and center, directly above the high altar. San Martin with his cloak, sword, and staff was nearby. To the right, Santa Margarita waited with her girdle and a lamb at her feet. With their shoulders firm and faces serious as the saints above them, the seven elderly men of the
concejales
portrayed a confidence none felt.

­People spilled from the nave into the aisles, jam-­packed together on the wooden benches, children sitting on parents' laps. Brought from substantial distances, the wood of the long benches was priceless. Private pews reserved for a single wealthy family now contained more life than they'd seen in three generations. Additional ­people inhabited the second-­story choir loft and crowded the ancient doors, where the last rays of the setting sun edged inside, casting long shadows. ­People spilled all the way down the marble steps to fill the square. A group of priests and the Bishop stood in the north transept, the only ones granted an inch of space in the thick press of bodies. Side chapels overflowed, men shoulder to shoulder with the tombs of long-­dead clergy. Even the lower sections of the altar held bystanders, eager for news. It was how the news would be received that Julian couldn't predict.

Beatriz waited for him at the foot of the lectern, touching mind, heart, liver, and spleen as Julian cleared his throat and gestured for quiet. The buzz of voices died to stillness, except for the lone cry of a baby, quickly hushed. He stared out at a sea of expectant faces, light from candles casting an uneven glow over all.

“Our city faces a time like none other,” Julian began. “Today is a day to speak only truths, no matter how painful they be. Regardless of the outcome, Colina Hermosa will never be the same. Many of us will perish. But perhaps a core will remain to carry our values forward. The time given us to decide ends tomorrow.

“The Northern terms have been posted in every church for all to see. The
concejales
have been among you to seek your thoughts. The priests have spoken with you also. This unprovoked enemy would have us turn over many of our fellow citizens—­men, women, and children—­to be killed. They demand we open wide the doors of Colina Hermosa to them. Insist we give up anything
they
consider weapons. Maintain we eliminate our government for theirs. Forsake our very God and the saints who guide us for their bloodthirsty heathen idol!

“They would leave us hanging by a thread. Subject to their power and control. Helpless before any further demands. Powerless to their whims. And they would have this for as long as we live—­as long as our children's children live.”

Mutters rose and died.

“We can take their terms and live like this. Become like the dead for a chance at a broken life. Their alternative—­to be burned along with our city. Already their siege machines have been moved forward in preparation.” He dropped his head to tap the contained flame that burned in the core of his heart. “Can we trust the word of an enemy that kills
helpless children
!” he shouted.

From every direction he was met with cries of, “No!”

Julian paused, fighting the lump in his throat. Fear controlled many faces in the crowd, but determination ran through the sacred house in a wave as men climbed to their feet. Pride burned strong in his chest. He knew his ­people would never accept these terms. Everywhere he'd gone over the last days, he'd heard the same response.

When the talk died and all who could were seated, he resumed, “So feel the
concejales.
They have voted unanimously to reject the Northern terms.” He turned to indicate the councilmen. “But we will not wait for our city to be burned with its folk inside. Our saints did not sit quietly at home when their faith was questioned. They lived their convictions! For us! They sacrificed for us!

“We are men! We are the ­people of Colina Hermosa! We will make our own destiny! We fight as San Martin did!”

Now they leaped to their feet. A roar spread from wall to wall, traveling out the door and into the square as his words were relayed.

He met Beatriz's worried eyes, and the flame in his heart flickered. His ­people would stand against the threat. Grievously outnumbered, they would fight. Blood would run. Colina Hermosa would . . . fall. Buildings, businesses, homes—­a way of life would perish. Thank the saints his sons were not here. Only in their absence could he keep his head high and force a brave mask for his ­people's eyes. He willed his knees straight. A core of a core could survive.

“I am an uncomplicated man.” The ­people quieted, taking their seats again. “A merchant. A politician. A father. A husband. It pains me that we are called to leave simplicity and our pleasant lives behind. The Lord forgive me, I want to stay a simple man. I do not look for violence. But today, there is no other course.” He looked behind him at the
concejales.
“Butchers must take up blades. Millers must reach for staves. Landowners their shovels. Merchants put down their coin and trust to knives. As a last chance in our final hours.

“Because
we are
honorable, a messenger will go to the Northerners at dawn to reject their terms.” He very carefully kept his face forward and away from his wife. “Then our plan will go into action. While the gate guard and others fight at the west gates, sections of our walls, far from the fighting, will go down. With our tunnels collapsed, we will destroy our own wall to get the innocents out. They will be guided and protected by the members of my
pelotón,
the council's
pelotón,
and those of the city and church.”

All eyes turned to the back of the building where the
capitanes
of each
pelotón
stood like silent beacons with their shining armor in the vestibule near the doors. Lieutenant Muño represented Salvador. With crossed arms or hands on sword hilts, the soldiers nodded.

“The ­people will take to the hills, go to the swamp, hide themselves from our enemies,” Julian said from the lectern. “They will try to reach Crueses and find safety there. Those who go will carry only their children and their elderly and sick. Take nothing but food that can fit in your pockets or weapons to guard lives. Take no weight of property because the
pelotón
will not wait for those who are slow or those who straggle. We are spread thin; the protection must remain with the larger group. The priests of every section of the city can direct you on where to be in the morning.” Julian focused on the gilt-­embossed wall and frescoes above the great doors as he touched mind, heart, liver, and spleen. “God go with you.

“For the rest with the heart to give their lives so others have time to escape, your district priests can direct you to where you are needed.” The core of flame inside Julian burned blue with heat. He would not be there to see any of it. Father Telo had taken his place once—­not again. He had a duty above all others.

“Sharpen your swords. Feed your anger. Grease your bowstrings. Hate must be met with hate when the day rises. Fire can burn flesh and topple buildings, but it cannot destroy the spirit. The saints watch over us. The Lord is our guide. Colina Hermosa stands as long as one of us breathes. For love of our families!

“For love of honor!

“For love of Colina Hermosa!”

Julian saw it all in his mind's eye: the white buildings coming to life at sunrise, the splash of the fountains where the women met to gossip, the scent and taste of cigars while conversing with friends after a heavy dinner party. All these spelled home.

“For love of Colina Hermosa!” echoed from every throat. Men, women, even tiny children stood to scream their love for their home.

Julian turned and made his way from the lectern, his legs weak. Members of the
Alcalde's pelotón
cordoned him off from the multitude before they could rush to question him. Inside that area of calm, Beatriz waited to clasp him tight. Her lips trembled. “And so we make our last stand,
mi amor,
” he whispered. “Now and forever.”

A tear spilled over and slid down her cheek. “Last stand. A glorious one, thanks to you. Now and forever.”

He shook his head to deny her praise, and a messenger boy in the gate guard uniform of solid gray pushed to his side. “
Alcalde
Alvarado!” the boy hollered in a high voice. “
Alcalde
Alvarado, they ask for you at the gate!”

Concejales
Diego and Pedro pushed their way to his side, their own guards trailing. “What does this mean?” Pedro asked. The gray-­haired miller clasped his thick hands. “Has something gone wrong? Have the Northerners struck early?”

Julian swung back to question the messenger, but the boy had already wiggled his way into the crowd. “We must go find out.”

W
ith the help of a deacon and their guards, they navigated the crowd and squeezed out a back door, across the grounds, and through an arched, wrought-­iron gate. The ­people needed to speak with their priests now anyway and not him. There was no more he could tell them; additional talk might undo the speech he'd just made.

The sunset made a blaze of reds, pinks, and corals across the sky. A few blocks' worth of walking took them to where carriages waited. Pedro got into Diego's as Julian helped Beatriz into their coach. “To the gate,” Julian called to his coachman.

“
Mi amor,
shall Carlos take you home after he drops me off? There's no attack, or the bells would be ringing. It's probably some tedious business about who goes where tomorrow.” He closed the door and sat beside her on the leather bench.

Beatriz leaned away from the back of her seat, plucking at the lace of her black skirt. “I stay with you. Can't you feel it? Something is wrong. Very wrong. And it has been building for days, getting closer.”

“It is the stress of tomorrow,
mi corazón
. We have tonight until the seven days ends. The Northerners will hold to it. I saw it in their eyes. It is their way. In the morning, you will be on your way with the evacuees to find our sons.”

“And you? You will be with me.”

“I must set an example for the ­people, mustn't I?” he said evasively. “We will always be together, you and I. The Lord will see it so.”

“I hope you are right.” Her tone said clearly that he wasn't.

She slipped her hand into his, and he frowned. She was ice-­cold, not her usual chilly. A shiver traveled down his spine as the carriage turned a corner onto the main avenue. In minutes, Carlos pulled the horses up, so they could climb down at the entrance to the gate courtyard. As he turned on the coach steps to give Beatriz his help, apprehension grew. Too many men filled the yard. Men who should have been resting off duty.

Soldiers in gray uniforms made way for them, and Julian did not care for the pity on their faces. Beatriz breathed like she'd been running—­an activity he hadn't seen from her in forty years, since they were children together, and she wanted to beat him to dessert at her father's table.

“What has happened?” he demanded.

A gate sergeant hurried over to them. “It just appeared outside,
Alcalde
Alvarado. First Wife. We let it in.” The man gestured at the gate.

A tall
caballo de guerra
pranced restlessly in front of the great doors, rearing when any of the men crowded around it tried to lay a hand on it. Unsaddled and unbridled, flecks of white foam covered its dappled-­gray hide. Its eyes rolled, showing its near panic.

“Oh no,” Beatriz gasped in a moan. Julian didn't feel her release his arm.

“It brought . . .” the sergeant began. He stepped back to reveal a man-­shaped form covered by blankets, prone on the cobblestones in the center of the courtyard. “I'm sorry, sir.”

With a stab of pain, Julian's heart seized and went still in his chest. Another throb of agony, and it resumed beating.

Beatriz had already started forward, a keening wail rising from her. The sound traveled to him as from a thousand miles' distance. The long lace dangling from the combs in her hair shook as if in an earthquake.

“It may not be,” Julian said. “Many
pelotón
forces are outside the walls.”

Beatriz paused long enough to show him her tear-­stained face. “Don't you think a mother recognizes her own child?” She knelt by the blanketed form. “Oh, Salvador.” She sobbed.

Julian's feet moved him forward of their own accord, taking him to the dead man. He bent, hand reaching, reaching and shaking too badly to lift the blanket. With a lunge, he managed to pull back a corner to stare at the brown curls of his eldest son, a little messy as if he'd been sleeping. Eyes closed and face solemn and motionless, Salvador did appear asleep. He'd always been a heavy sleeper as a child, able to fall off the bed without waking.

The courtyard spun until only that still face and Beatriz's sobs appeared real. A hand squeezed his shoulder. Pedro.

“Someone fetch my wife and daughters,” the old miller instructed. “The First Wife will need women about her now.”

“A miracle they got through,” the sergeant said to Diego. “The warhorse let us take off the body. It drank, then the creature went crazy when we tried to groom it. None of us can touch it.”

Julian lifted dry eyes to regard the horse. Valentía. His son's partner and pride and joy. Valentía spun, kicking his heels dangerously. Gratitude swelled in Julian's breast. The horse had given him final hours with his son before the end.