CHAPTER FIVE
Scouting was an easy thing to do badly, a hard one for a lone man to do well. By rights Toby ought to zigzag back and forth across the entire width of the valley, from height of land to height of land, while investigating every bush or rock in between, but there were limits to how much ground even his legs could cover and still keep him a reasonable distance in front of the main band. Fortunately his pack was lighter than it had been.
Unfortunately, it was growing ominously light, and his solitary wandering gave him time to brood over a very grim-looking future. One of the rules of field craft he had picked up in his mongrel career as soldier, peddler, teamster, smuggler, and most often fugitive, was that a man on foot could rarely carry more than ten days' rations. While he was unusually strong and not much encumbered with other gear, he had an appetite to match his size and bore Gracia's share on his back as well as his own. He estimated they had only seven days' supplies left. Hamish's pack was mostly filled with books, of course. They would not reach Barcelona in seven days. When they did, they would not find it built of gingerbread.
When he wasn't worrying about food, he worried about Oreste and himself chopping off Hamish's head.
Around noon he came to a burned-out casa. Nothing remained of the main house except fire-blackened two-story walls with secretive little window openings, and the destroyers had gone to a great deal of trouble to waste the surrounding crops, vines, and olive trees. Only the weeds prospered, already moving in to conceal evidence—a table leg, an anonymous charred bone, half a child's doll—but the ruins were deserted and there was water in the well, so it would be a good place to make the midday halt. He signaled to Don Ramon, receiving a wave from Francisco in acknowledgment. Then he placed his pack on top of a thick, head-high wall. As a picnic site it lacked shade, but it commanded a good view of the countryside.
By the time the pilgrims arrived, he had filled the water trough. Hamish quickly began assisting Senora Collel's party, probably so he could stay close to Eulalia. Old Salvador Brusi made straight for the nearest patch of shade, leaving Josep to tend the horses, although he was obviously unskilled with them. Toby went to help him unload.
Clumsy the youngster might be, but he spoke Castilian and could understand Toby's polyglot jabber. "I apologize for my father's rudeness earlier, senor," he said diffidently.
"I am sorry I barked back at him. How far have you come?"
"With the don? From Toledo. How long will it take us to reach Barcelona?"
"At this rate about a hundred years. The mule slows us. It is overburdened."
"Yes. Often has the don told them so and made them carry half its load themselves, but as soon as his back is turned they put it all on the mule again."
"Your horses could carry more. Will you consent to take some of their goods?"
Josep glanced anxiously in his father's direction. "I shall ask, senor."
"Without trying to charge a fee, of course."
The young man smiled wanly. "That will certainly be the problem."
"It is to your advantage that we make better time."
Having established to his own satisfaction that the Brusi baggage included substantially more than seven days' food and several suspiciously heavy bags that might well contain gold, Toby returned to his pack. Hamish was already there, perched on the wall and unwrapping some of the inevitable beans. Gracia had been invited to dine with Senora Collel, who must either have ample provisions or else did not understand the danger of starvation.
The overall picture was dismal—the three women under an orange tree that had somehow survived the devastation, the two clerics and Pepita near the well, the Rafael-Miguel foursome in another corner, the Brusis also by themselves. He looked around for the don and his squire, but they had ridden off to the nearest hillock.
"A friendly lot," he observed.
"They're frightened," Hamish said, chewing. "Senora Collel is furious because she has to sleep in the open. She brought no tent. She expected comfortable inns, because that was what she enjoyed when she went south. She says it was most inconsiderate of the invaders to burn the inns."
"Fear ought to make them unite. Or the don should. That's what a leader is for."
"He's crazy! Mad as a wet cat."
"So is Gracia. It's the war, I think. I'm not even sure of old Brusi, if he's trying to carry gold without a proper escort. And I'm crazier than any of them." Toby did not really think he was crazy, but he suspected the hob was. "We all should get along famously."
Hamish grinned. "It's lonely being the only sane man in the world. You're right about Brusi. Senora Collel says he got such a good price from the don that he couldn't resist the bargain."
"Oh? And what's her excuse?"
The grin widened. "She heard about Brusi and thought he was shrewd enough to know what he was doing, so she signed up too. None of them had any idea how bad the devastation was." He tugged a weighty book from his pack.
"What's that one about?" Toby asked.
"Hmm? Catalan verse. You did tell me to brush up my Catalan."
"You planning to quote poetry to Eulalia?"
Hamish looked up, wide-eyed with hope. "Would that work?"
"I've heard it can be quite effective. And if you think it will help, you can tell her that Gracia and I are lovers."
Hamish turned faintly pink. "I already did." He began to read with great concentration.
Poor Hamish! Since the evening of the day his voice broke, he had been making advances to pretty girls. Even now that his beard had grown in—a little scanty in spots, but an honest beard—they still seemed to think of him as only a boy. He had no trade or land or family prospects. Possibly he was too intellectual, all head and no heart, and probably too solemn and serious, although he was witty enough with men. It was definitely time to send him home to the glen to wed some bonnie lass and raise another generation of schoolteachers.
And poor Toby! He had the opposite problem. Since Mezquiriz, he dared not even think about women in case he reminded the hob of Jeanne.
Oh, Jeanne!
Hamish yawned. They were both worn threadbare by too many broken nights.
"If you drop off up here," Toby said, "then you will drop off. Take a nap." He would not. The don must not catch them both sleeping on duty.
Hamish peered at him blearily. "Half and half? Wake me in an hour?"
"Promise."
Hamish closed his book and jumped down. He stretched out on the grass and was snoring in seconds.
Toby retrieved the sword from his pack and fashioned a loop of rope as a baldric for it, thinking the sight of it might make the pilgrims more inclined to accept him as a guard. Worried he might go to sleep in the heat, he clambered down and walked around to see to the others. They were all doing what Hamish was. There was no sign of Don Ramon or Francisco.
The landscape baked in silence, nothing moving under the sun, not a bird in the empty blue sky. He went off to the remains of the vineyard to see if the birds and insects had overlooked any grapes. The vines were grown on the ground, not on trellises, and he waded knee-high through rustling brown leaves, pushing branches aside with his sword. He found only a few moldy raisins to eat, but it passed the time.
Help soon arrived in the person of Eulalia, slender and slyly smiling, who had no doubt feigned sleep to evade her mistress and was now elated to have the big young stranger to herself. That he would be equally pleased she would not doubt, nor should she—her shapeless servant garb could not completely deny the lure of the body within. Her robe was of coarse brown fabric, long-sleeved to cover everything except face and hands, decorated crudely with strips of yellow and orange, probably by herself. A darker cloth covered her head, but the casing on her braid hung to her waist, and nothing could disguise the magic of the dark eyes, the sculptured perfection of features, the complexion like aged ivory. Dress her as a princess and she would be one. Small wonder Hamish had lost his wits already.