"What is going on? Stand aside!" ordered Don Ramon.
Everyone scrambled out of the way, leaving only Hamish kneeling there, holding the leather water bottle to Toby's mouth.
He choked and spluttered and spat out blood. He was flat on his back on the grass and could not even think of rising—to do so would mean moving his arms. His throat was so raw with screaming that he could not speak, but he could laugh, a pathetic little animal whimper of laughter to celebrate his escape from the Inquisition. It might not work this way when the events really happened, sometime in the future, but it was real now. What he had just endured had been only another vision. He was safely back with the pilgrims and could worry about the Dominicans another day. Life was worth living again.
"We do not know what happened, senor!" That was Josep, his voice shrill with worry. "We were rounding up the horses and the captain cried out and fell. We ran over at once. He seems to be injured."
Now there was a massive understatement! Would he ever lift his arms again? Both shoulders burned and throbbed savagely, but the left was worse than the right, not just more painful but distorted, as if the bone was out of its socket. What sort of protector was he now? Two days since Salvador Brusi died, two days of being a hero to them, and now he was a useless cripple. How long would the pain be this bad?
"I was only a few paces from him, senor." That was Gracia. "He just dropped."
"Well, sit him up."
Toby made croaking noises and shook his head violently.
"It may well be that a demon has cursed him!" the don announced, and his audience moaned fearfully. "Bring Father Guillem."
Hamish laid a hand on the patient's forehead. "I believe it may be a sudden fever, senor. Perhaps Brother Bernat could be summoned? He is skilled at healing."
The chorus backed away, for memories of the plague were still strong in Aragon.
"We shall send both," said the don. "Collect the horses. Strike camp. We cannot wait here all day. Load the wounded into the hospital wagons."
The pilgrims ran. In a moment there was only Hamish kneeling there in the field, his face pallid with worry under his deep tan, lank hair dangling over his eyes. "Another vision?"
Toby grunted and nodded.
"It could only have lasted a couple of seconds. I saw you."
"No! Longer." He had spent at least three nights in the stinking cell. The torture had started on the fourth day of questioning—and lasted about a hundred years. Couple of seconds?
"Your beard's thicker!"
Toby started to raise a hand and stopped instantly, grimacing. "Uh?"
Hamish produced a smile that looked as if it had been slept in. "Remember we agreed we'd know it was the hob doing it if your beard came back? Well, you've got a lot more stubble than you had ten minutes ago. Several days? A week? Can't say. Don't know if anyone else will notice. If they do, they just won't believe their eyes, so it won't matter."
Did that mean anything? Was it part of the warning, a hint that he had a few days or at most a week until the torture began? A man could grow a beard and shave it off every month for years. He did not know when the vision had been, nor where. In a town, yes, because he had heard city noises from his cell window, but Barcelona or some other?
Hamish rose. "Here comes Brother Bernat. Do I tell him?"
"Just him," Toby whispered. He closed his eyes for a moment, ignoring voices. It was hard to think through the pain. He could probably walk if he was on his feet and had both arms in slings—it would be getting there that would be the problem.
What he needed to know was how the Inquisition was going to catch him and how to avoid that fate, but all he had were his memories of that hour or so in the torture chamber—plus a few vaguer memories of memories. When he was shown the poster, he had been thinking that someone betrayed him... pilgrims, these pilgrims. There had been other interrogations... in a tent? Recalling those moments of dread and defeat when he had stripped naked before the watching tormentors and inquisitors, he realized that he had been removing the same shabby hose and doublet he wore now. The future he had foreseen was not very far off. Less than a week's beard. This was the same beard, grown longer, not next month's beard or next year's beard.
None of this made sense! His shoulders were going to take months to heal—if they ever would heal properly—and yet there had been nothing wrong with them until the thugs began systematically wrecking him. His vision of the future seemed to have made itself impossible. Madness!
Last night, around the campfire, the pilgrims had agreed that it could not be long now, a day or two at the most, until they reached the Ebro, the greatest river in Spain, and the only one of any size between Valencia and Barcelona. They would have to cross it on the bridge at Tortosa, which was a large town. Large enough to have an office of the Inquisition, perhaps. And where better to apprehend a suspect you have a picture of than on a bridge he must cross?
A shadow fell over his face. He opened his eyes to see the emaciated old friar kneeling beside him. He sensed that Pepita was there, inevitably, but Hamish had been sent away.
"This gramarye has injured you, my son—where?"
"Shoulders," Toby whispered. "Strappado."
Brother Bernat drew in his breath in surprise. "Who did this?"
"The Inquisition, Brother."
"Ah, a great evil! And your speech? Sore throat! Let me tend that first. Relax as much as you can and do not be afraid."
Dry, cool fingers clasped Toby's neck. He felt a tingle, then a strange sensation like ice water soaking through his flesh. The fires died away to a lingering ache. Even his torn mouth stopped hurting. Spirits! This was gramarye as potent as any he had ever met.
"Is that better?"
"Much better, Brother! Thank you. Thank you very much. How do you do that?"
The old man shook his head impatiently. "We have much to talk about. Ah, your wrists! But your arms must be the worst, yes? Can you sit up?"
Toby shuddered. He took a deep breath, released it, and then performed the fastest sit-up of his life, letting his hands trail in the dirt. His shoulders exploded in thunderbolts. He did not cry out, not quite, but that was only because he knew the child was there.
"Ah, fool that I am!" said Brother Bernat, clasping Toby's head between his hands. "Peace, my son!" The agony subsided a little. "Now I have to open your jerkin. Pepita, your fingers are faster than mine. Unlace this for the captain."
At once Pepita was there, kneeling on his other side, looking very solemn. Her hands fluttered like butterflies: jerkin, doublet, shirt—and then she chuckled gleefully. "Look, he has hairs on his chest! And a locket! Can I see?" She reached for the little leather packet Toby wore around his neck.
"No!" The amethyst was the thing he prized most in all the world, Granny Nan's farewell gift to him, but if this child were to try and take it, he could not lift a finger to stop her.
"Pepita, your manners!" Brother Bernat said sharply. "That is the captain's. Leave it." With delicate, careful movements, he stripped off Toby's loose garments until he was bare to the waist. Pepita sat back and stared, but even Toby could see that his shoulders and arms were puffed out like red melons, the left one worse than the right. He had a better view of his hideously discolored elbows, his bruised and bloody wrists. His ankles felt as if they were scraped raw again inside his buskins.
The friar muttered angrily. "This arm is out of place, my son. It may hurt when I put it back. Wait." He laid his hands on the fiery swelling, and his touch produced the same icy relief as before. "Ready?" He pushed.