"I thank you, Brother. Should we not go and join the others now?"
"As you wish." Brother Bernat sank down on the stump as Toby relinquished it to take up his clothes. "How far is it to Tortosa?"
Pulling on his shirt, Toby said, "How should I know? I've never..." He stared in dismay at the gentle smile. "But I have, haven't I?"
The friar nodded. "Yes, my son, you have been here before. This is at least the fourth time you have walked this road. For all we know, it may be the twelfth time, or the twentieth. It may not be the last."
CHAPTER SIX
Setting off along the trail again, they saw Francisca in the distance, coming on her pony, and they waved. She responded but did not turn back, so she must have something to tell them. It was a reminder that privacy was about to be lost, that Toby had better think up an explanation for his peculiar behavior, and that there were still mysteries lurking on the edges.
"May I ask you a question now, Brother?"
"No, because I have more to tell you, so I have not finished." The old man chuckled at his expression. "You see? Even we Franciscans can be devious! But we give fair value. What have you there, child?" He examined Pepita's collection of leaves and began lecturing her on herbs.
Only gramarye could have healed Toby's injuries. The kindly old man was certainly not an incarnate, so he must be an adept and have a bottled demon concealed somewhere about his person. But if Toby could carry the soul of the true king of England around with him in a locket, a friar could transport a demon. Granted that the initial process of capturing and enslaving an elemental was vicious, the resulting demon was still immortal. If it and its conjuration later fell into innocent hands and were applied to benevolent purposes, that was a worthy practice surely. It would have to be a secret one, though, because hexing was not merely illegal but so detested that suspects were frequently torn apart by a mob before the authorities could even arrest them. He could see no connection between what Brother Bernat was doing and Senora Collel's confused mutterings about alumbradismo. Nor could he see where Pepita might fit in—Pepita, whose strange rapport for horses extended even to mice.
The Inquisition disapproved of hexers almost as much as it disapproved of the possessed. Should it learn of Brother Bernat's actions, it would confiscate his demon and impose a severe penance on him, although few of the customary penalties could be applied to a ninety-year old mendicant preacher. Forfeiture of all his worldly goods would be impossible, because he had none. Flogging or a term in the galleys would kill him. But he would certainly lose Pepita, whom he obviously loved dearly, so he had as much cause to fear the Inquisition as Toby did. He was not the only one. Gracia was another, whether or not she was achieving anything with her voices and her bottles, and the don himself might be judged possessed if he babbled about his imaginary army.
Francisca arrived on her wheezing little pony and beamed delightedly at Toby. "Campeador, you are recovered!"
"Thanks to Brother Bernat. I had a bad fall, but his skilled massage has eased my bruises."
The old lady blinked in disbelief. "Indeed? Praise to all good spirits! But I came to urge you to greater speed, for we have seen a mounted band approaching, and Don Ramon is preparing our defenses. Perhaps you could go faster if the child rode with me?"
"I think she can manage as well on her own feet, senor," the friar said, eyeing the sweating pony dubiously.
Toby decided he could swing his sword now, although not as nimbly as usual, but he did not have it with him. "I shall go ahead, then, Senor Francisco, and let you all follow." He set off at a lope, and even that hardly jarred his shoulders.
As soon as he crested the rise he saw the pilgrims assembled amid some broken walls and tall cypresses a bowshot from the trail. It was not the fortress of Toledo, but it was the most defensible position in sight, and confirmation of Brother Bernat's view that one should heed what the don did, not what he said.
The mounted band Francisca had mentioned comprised at least a dozen riders and about ten wagons, coming at a leisurely pace. It might be no more than a trading party with armed guards, or it might be the Inquisition. It did not look much like a gang of highwaymen, but sunlight flashed on helmets and blades, and the lead man carried a pennant. If there was to be a fight, it would be a brief one.
Toby cranked up to a sprint and arrived in the shade of the cypress trees damp and breathless. Hamish offered him his sword and helmet and a look of welcome almost embarrassing in its intensity.
He went to where the don was standing beside his warhorse and saluted, conscious of all the others' wondering stares. "Your campeador reports for duty, senor."
The arrogant blue eyes scanned him from his head to his toes and back again. "Submit a full report in writing, Campeador." He turned away to study the newcomers' approach.
"Well?" Hamish demanded eagerly.
"Very well, thank you." Quickly, Toby outlined the friar's explanation for the visions and the danger of a roadblock at Tortosa. He spoke in Gaelic, which doubtless annoyed Senora Collel excessively.
Hamish pulled a face. "I have never read anything about spirits moving back in time!"
"Not everything can be found in books. The old man healed my injuries—have you ever read of gramarye being used for such a purpose?"
"No," Hamish admitted reluctantly. "Only tutelaries do such things. Or hexers, and he is no hexer."
The wagon train came to a halt. Suspicion worked both ways, and its escort would naturally wonder whether the few men and women they could see in the open were all of the don's party. The man bearing the pennant rode forward across the field with two others at his back, coming slowly.
"Campeador!" said the don. "You will present me." He vaulted with his lance into Atropos' saddle and rode off without a backward glance.
Toby could see no signs of anyone in friars' robes, which was a relief. He said, "Hamish?" and the two of them followed Don Ramon to the parley.
The horsemen dismounted. They were armed with muskets and swords and garbed like soldiers. Their pennant was unfamiliar to him.
No it wasn't! The pennant was vaguely familiar, the men were vaguely familiar, the whole situation screamed at him that he had been here before. He just couldn't remember when. Even—now that he looked at it—the scenery, the valley looming ahead, lay tantalizingly just outside the edges of his memory. Déjà vu!
Had it started, then?
The don reined in a dozen paces from the strangers and glanced at his aide-de-camp. "Campeador, inquire what manner of men these be and by what right they contest our progress."
Toby marched forward and saluted. "Senor, the noble Don Ramon de Nuñez y Pardo, traveling on pilgrimage to Montserrat with his train, bids me question what manner of persons you be."
The lead soldier was a large man, almost as tall as Toby himself, and not much older. He undoubtedly looked much more ferocious, being slung around with arms of all kinds and sporting both a broken nose and a jet-black beard as big as a pillow. Toby was certain he knew him from somewhere, he just couldn't quite place him. How could such a face be forgotten?
The man scowled, considered the question for a long moment, and then unexpectedly grinned. "As honest a party of merchants as ever sold the Sassenachs a herd by day and drove it back across the border by night." He spoke in Scots.