The don had attended to the butchery, asserting that the dead animal was the handsomest ten-point stag he had seen in years and explaining all the time to his helpers, the two Elinors, the joys of hunting boar. Fortunately, they would have understood little of his Castilian. Mad or not, he was as skilled with a skinning knife as he was with a broadsword.
Josep smiled disbelievingly. "I do not know on what terms Don Ramon hired you that morning we met, senor, but when I pay him off at my door, I shall give you the same amount I give him, and gladly. My father's death is not to be laid to the fault of either of you."
Toby swallowed a twinge of pride he could not afford and thanked him for this unwarranted generosity. He and Hamish might not starve in the gutters of Barcelona after all, or not immediately.
Josep shot another thin smile at him. "You think the spendthrift boy will soon fritter away the Brusi fortune. You may be right, Tobias, but I am convinced that the most valuable aid a man of business can have—apart from a reputation for honesty, of course—is a team of trustworthy employees. If you will be seeking work in Barcelona, I shall outbid anyone else for your services."
"The senor requires a strong porter?"
The thin boyish face flushed scarlet. "That was not what I meant! Many of our workers have fled or were slain in the fighting and must be replaced. I will make you foreman in our warehouse without a moment's hesitation. Do you wish to discuss wages now?"
"No, senor, but I am even more grateful than I realized."
Brusi's offer was certainly better than his father's had been, and much more appealing than Senora Collel's lascivious hints. The oak tree had fallen. Josep had escaped from his father's shadow and was starting to flourish already.
He was not alone—unexpected death had given the whole band new life, a sense of comradeship. The men had shared in the digging, laying Salvador Brusi to rest by the roadside in an unmarked grave. Toby had put Hamish in charge of reloading the pack animals, and when he called a halt and announced that everything remaining must be left where it was or manhandled, there had not been one word of protest, even from Manuel and Rafael. Now everyone was chattering excitedly to everyone else. Long might it last!
***
They did not go far that day, for they came upon a deserted casa. The unroofed walls still enclosed a courtyard that would hold both people and horses and could be defended if necessary. Toby proposed that they spend the night there, although the hour was not far past noon. The don frowned and then conceded that some of the auxiliaries might need time to reorganize.
They built a fire and feasted together on horseflesh, tough, stringy, and delicious. Toby could not recall the last time he had eaten roast meat and tried not to recall the last time he had smelled it, in the orange grove. The ensuing luxury of just relaxing for a few hours was almost as welcome as the feast—his suggestion of a break from travel had been a good one for both people and horses. He had pickets to think about, of course, and he must insist on some more lessons in using quarterstaffs... later.
In the lazy heat of late afternoon, he had two curious conversations.
The first was when he was summoned by the don, who was sitting on a sawhorse stripped to his shirt so his squire could shave him.
"Captain," he announced grandly, "I have decided to appoint you campeador of Nuñez y Pardo. Henceforth you will receive a one-twentieth share of the rewards. You may divide this with your own men or not, as you please."
Toby thought he might feel very honored if he knew what a campeador was. He exchanged astonished glances with Doña Francisca, expressed humble thanks, and said, "What rewards, senor?"
Mild surprise. "Plunder from the cities we sack, of course. And ransoms, when we grant quarter to persons of quality."
"The hidalgo is most generous."
"Not at all. You and your minions fought with distinction today." Don Roman shrugged, which almost caused his mother to cut his throat. "The musketry was perhaps not up to my usual standards. See that it improves."
"Yes, senor." Was that madness in the blue eyes or mockery?
"I have also," the don continued, "been considering our future campaigns when the Barcelona operation is completed. You are an Englishman?"
"According to the English I am, senor. In Scotland we disagree on the matter."
"But you do speak English?"
What Toby called English the English called Scots, but the don was not waiting to know that. "Little better than I speak Castilian, senor."
"That bad? But you are not a supporter of King Nevil?" The copper eyebrows rose inquiringly. Behind his shoulder, Doña Francisca was gaping. Whatever her son had in mind had not been shared with her.
"No, senor. I despise him and detest him."
"Ah." That was apparently welcome news. "But Barcelona is his."
"I am only a landless freeman, senor. I cannot depose the master of half of Europe. Affairs of kings are not mine to question." The Earl of Argyll would not concede that he was even a freeman.
"Hmm. Nevil's viceroy rules in Barcelona, the notorious Oreste." The don stared away at the bright courtyard and the blue sky overhead. "My own position is problematic. My estates lie in that part of La Mancha that King Pedro was forced to cede to the rebels. It would seem that my fealty now lies with King Nevil."
Toby exchanged more puzzled glances with Doña Francisca.
"I cannot presume to advise the honored hidalgo."
The young man chuckled as if that were a ludicrous suggestion. He continued to study the skies, perhaps watching the lonely kites that had been passing overhead ever since the massacre. "Of course not. But tell me, Campeador... You are a brave man, even if you are of insignificant birth. Have you ever considered the purpose of life? I realize that you cannot have the sense of honor and duty that your betters have, but you appear to have some sort of perception of... well, manhood."
"You flatter me, senor." You also confuse the blazes out of me.
"And you must have a rudimentary concept of ethical principles."
"I hope I do."
"Have you ever contemplated the possibility of striking a great blow for righteousness?" The mad gaze turned back to Toby. "Of making some demonstration of your, um, manhood, that would make your life remembered, even at the cost of making it short? Of offering yourself as a sacrifice to a noble cause, in other words?"
Could even Don Ramon imagine that he stood a chance against a paramount hexer like Oreste, with his demonic bodyguards? A bloody head rolled across the boards of the scaffold...
Toby took a moment to rein in stampeding thoughts. "If the cause were great enough and the chances of success reasonable, then any man should see it as his duty, senor."
The don sneered and turned his head away, almost losing an ear to the razor. "Reasonable? What sort of quibble is that? Reasonable? Any slight possibility that it not be impossible should suffice. I see I misjudged you, Campeador. You may go."
Toby was very glad to go. The don was not merely mad, he was dangerously mad.
And so, perhaps, were certain others in the party. Hamish had been babbling strange nonsense about Gracia's injuries and recovery. Gracia herself had apparently accepted Don Ramon's view of the world, because she now spoke breathlessly of his vast estates and the high honor in which his friend the king held him—which confirmed that the noble lord's honor was distressingly malleable where women were concerned.
And then there was Brother Bernat.
It was time for a serious talk with Brother Bernat.