Even the two clerics remained aloof. Toby had talked with them on the march, receiving a severe lecture from Father Guillem on the virtue of peaceable methods and the iniquity of drawing a sword on unarmed peasants. Toby refrained from pointing out that the procession had moved a lot faster since his bullying.
Brother Bernat was courteous, inquisitive, and inscrutable. At times his talk rambled and he seemed almost senile, but his questions were sharp enough. Anything he said about himself was trivial, as when Toby congratulated him on keeping up with youngsters like him.
"I am a friar, Tobias. I have been walking all my life. I would take you on any day and walk your feet off. But you have walked all the way from Scotland? By what route did you come?" Yes, Brother Bernat was much more likeable than the monk, and not as feeble and feathery as he pretended.
When the horses were seen to, Toby collected the bucket and headed for the pool. The sky was darkening already, and the long day had left him bone weary. It was not over yet, of course. He was accosted by the don, on foot but still wearing his cuirass and now bearing his great broadsword as well. He held out two wooden whistles hung on thongs.
"You will post the order of the watch, Captain."
Toby accepted the whistles and made a rapid calculation. Two would be the minimum to guard so many horses, and he was surprised the don had not ordered him to post twenty. How many men could he call on, though?
Then Don Ramon added: "Leave orders for my personal staff to be awakened two hours before dawn, so they can prepare my bath and so on."
"As the hidalgo commands," Toby answered gratefully. He assumed that meant the don and Francisco would take the final watch, so the night could be divided into five, which would be a great deal easier than the last few nights had been. He would not trust Rafael and Miguel together, though, and probably not the two Brusis, either. It would take some thought...
"We must assume, Captain, that the Fiend has learned from his demons that I have taken the field against him. He will undoubtedly hasten here in strength to oppose me. You should anticipate a surprise attack before dawn."
Toby drew a quick breath and said, "This is serious news, senor. I shall pass it on to the officers and take the necessary precautions."
That was easier than trying to explain to the madman that he himself, Toby Longdirk—pauper, smuggler, mercenary, and habitual odd-job man—had been the reason King Nevil had invaded Spain the first time...
He filled the bucket and went off into the dark trees to clean up. He had barely removed his doublet and shirt when he heard a quiet rustle behind him and a high-pitched voice murmured:
"Captain?"
He stayed where he was, on his knees, annoyed at this intrusion. "You need the bucket, Senor Francisco? I shall be only a few moments."
"Oh. No. Or not yet." The old squire cleared his throat and shuffled his feet. "I was wondering... That is, I propose..."
Toby sat back on his heels with an inward sigh. "Whatever it is, I shan't tell the don."
"Ah, you are understanding. I should like to buy some provisions, if you have some to spare. You see—you will recall—Ramon invited Doña Gracia to dine with him this evening. He has ordered me to prepare a banquet in her honor, but this will leave me a little shorter of supplies than... He does not realize..."
Toby's mind jumped back to the siesta break. Those two had ridden off alone. He turned to stare at the old man.
"Have you anything left at all?"
"Oh, yes! I mean... Well, not a great deal..."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing," Francisco admitted sadly.
"When did you last eat?"
"We had a little yesterday."
Great spirits! "You can't go all the way to Montserrat without eating!"
"No, senor. But the don... He is a proud man and—"
"He still has to eat." Toby had expected that his own group would be the first to run out, or possibly the clerics, whose packs seemed skimpy, but not for a few days, and he had been hoping that by then he might have thumped these stubborn individualists into more of a team and taught them the need to share.
"I am offering payment!" Francisco whispered despondently. He held out a hand. "This ring is very pure gold."
Tony took it and peered at it in the fading light. It was a plain wedding band and could be gold for all he could tell. Returning it, he caught hold of Francisco's hand. It was a small hand, very delicate. He looked up at the plump, aged face.
"Francisca?"
She drew in her breath and snatched her fingers from his grasp. For a moment she seemed about to flee, and then her shoulders slumped. She groaned. "You are perceptive, senor! I don't think any of the others have guessed."
Toby laughed gently. "I'm sure you're right, because Senora Collel does not know. Sit down and tell me about it. As one seasoned campaigner with another, you will not object to watching me wash?"
"We can talk later, senor." She sounded close to tears.
"No, sit down! Turn your back if you wish." Toby scooped water in both hands and soaked his face, his odd-seeming, naked face. He was glad to be rid of the beard, because he hated it, but it would return fast enough. He owned no razor. "Tell me the story. I won't repeat it. I promise, but I do want to hear. Think of it as my day's pay."
The old woman settled to the ground stiffly, not turning her back but not facing him either. She sighed. "I am his mother."
Who else could she be? He might have guessed grandmother, but she seemed younger as a woman than she had as a man. The pitch of her voice had lost its strangeness, of course.
"He is of the limpieza de sangre, the pure blood. Look at the veins in his wrists—blue as the sky! His family is very old, very distinguished, but it was never wealthy. In his grandfather's time... You do not care about that. Suffice it, senor, that when his father died, two years ago, and then the bankers called in their notes, he was left with only one tiny holding. Four sheep wide and ten sheep long, he called it, but he was still a hidalgo with land and a roof over his head. When the rebels came, he had not even that."
Toby was starting to wish he had not asked. He slopped water over himself and said nothing. In the camp behind him Pepita trilled with laughter and a horse whinnied.
"He answered King Pedro's call, of course. He fought very bravely! You may doubt a mother speaking of her son, but I tell you much less than the truth. Many persons commented on how he distinguished himself on his first day in battle. At the end his horse was killed under him and his arm was broken. He was taken prisoner. His armor was forfeit, of course, his weapons, everything."
Toby shivered. "He was extremely lucky not to be butchered most horribly."
"I know that, senor. He killed a guard and escaped back to the Castilian lines."
"With a broken arm?"
"Yes. Alone."
That was an incredible feat. If true it deserved an epic, and somehow he did not doubt a word of it—fiction would have been made more believable. "How old is he?"
She evaded the question. "He was a man when he was fourteen. But he could fight no more. By the time the bone had knitted, the war was over."
"And you had nothing."
"We were out in the streets. He did not even have clothes in which to go to court to seek recognition of his services." She sighed. "I doubt he would have gone anyway. He comes of proud stock. His father... No matter. I heard of certain persons who wished to return to Barcelona and wanted to hire a guard. I found others like them. I made the arrangements, senor. Then I went and told him what I had done."