"Demons, we are lost!" Toby replied. "Toby Longdirk of Tyndrum."
"Graham Johnson of Girvan!" Hands were clasped in a grip that rapidly tightened until it would have crushed marble. Grins widened.
"One moment," Toby said when the brutal greeting had been mutually accepted as a draw. He went back to the don. "Merely merchants, senor, with mercenary guards."
Don Ramon shrugged contemptuously. "Question them about the enemy's dispositions and let them pass." He turned Atropos and rode away as if disappointed by the lack of opportunity for honorable bloodshed.
By that time Hamish was in full gabble with Master Johnson, while the latter's two Spanish subordinates looked on in silent disdain. Scottish mercenaries were prized all over Europe, so it was little surprise to find one here. But it was good fortune, because whatever Master Johnson's politics might be, he would have small sympathy for the Inquisition. Thus when Toby had described the condition of the lands south to Valencia and warned about the would-be horse thieves who had attacked the pilgrims, and had similarly been advised about the state of affairs in Tortosa and Catalonia as far as Barcelona itself, he could bring up the delicate subject without having to hedge.
The mercenary spat in disgust. "There's black robes and gray robes and white robes all over the place, and they have no liking for foreigners, but they didna' bother me nor Ian nor Gavin. There's a toll on the bridge at Tortosa. I dinna' recall seeing any friars there. I'd expect that don of yours to ride across wi' his nose in the air and not having to pay a groat, him being a noble and all."
That was good news. Indeed, all his news was good. Catalonia had suffered less than Valencia in the fighting, he said, and was already recovering, although still risky for travelers. There was food to be had in Tortosa, which was a major port, although prices were exorbitant. They ought to reach the town by the next day, and Master Johnson recommended the best inns for food, vermin-free bedding, and plump women respectively—no one establishment qualifying on all counts. And they were already more or less out of danger, he said, because the governor in Tortosa sent out patrols to keep order, and their reach extended almost this far south of the city. Gavin's troop had not seen a soul since the previous afternoon.
He must have told Toby the same news before, though, perhaps more than once. It all sounded vaguely familiar.
PART FIVE
Ambush
CHAPTER ONE
"Toby!" Hamish howled. "You have the brains of a trout! You are crazy! A gibbering, blithering maniac!" He was crimson with fury and disbelief.
"I expect so. Blame the hob."
Pepita, Francisca, and Brother Bernat had arrived. Everyone had heard the mercenary's news and was ready to move out—everyone, that is, except Senor Campbell, who seemed more inclined to nail Toby to a tree with a sword through his chest. The Hamish who had so adamantly rejected prophecy was apparently quite willing to believe in the hob's fresh starts, and in this case he felt very strongly that the fresh start should be aimed due south.
"To your post, Sergeant Jaume," Toby said patiently. "Demons! I'll promote you and double your pay. Consider yourself Captain Jaume from now on." Seldom had a joke been greeted with less amusement. Oh, well! "Laddie, we can talk about this when we've got everyone moving." He stalked over to salute the don, who was already mounted. "Ready to move out, senor."
Surprisingly, the response was not an order to have the band play, or the buglers sound, or the cavalry lead in column of four. Don Ramon just said, "About time. Stay close, I have questions." He urged old Atropos to a gentle amble. Francisca moved Petals into place alongside.
Seeing that Acting Captain Jaume had postponed his mutiny and was attending to the final prodding and urging, Toby heaved his pack onto his shoulders—ignoring spiteful stabs of agony from his remaining bruises—and took up position, striding along at the don's left stirrup. "Senor?"
"This valley we are entering disturbs me. What other routes are available?"
"None, senor. I asked the mercenary, and he said this is the only way to Tortosa, and Tortosa is the only place we may cross the Ebro, unless we continue upriver a very long way. Behind that ridge to the right is the sea, and beyond it you end up in the swamps of the delta. We could go west of this other hill, but we come out on the river at the same place, about four leagues south of the city. That road is much harder, he said."
Receiving no response, he glanced up and was surprised to see a grin on the don's face. It disappeared instantly. Just for that moment he had looked very young and very normal, yet when he spoke he was back in his paradise of delusion:
"And what do you conclude about the enemy's plans and probable disposition, Campeador?"
His enemies were figments of delusion, but Toby's were not. One man's make-believe could be another man's reality.
"Senor, if the enemy wants to contest our progress, the bridge at Tortosa is the obvious place to do it, and the mercenary did mention soldiers there. I shall breathe more freely when we are safely across the Ebro." Or he might not be breathing at all. As he put the situation into words, he saw that Hamish was right; he was crazy not to go back while he had the chance. He should say his farewells to the don right now and head south. "But perhaps the bridge is too obvious? If I were the..." he almost said, "Inquisition," and changed it hastily, "...foe, senor, I think I would lie in wait at the north end of that mountain west of us."
"The Sierra Grossa. The one on our right is the Sierra del Montsia."
"The hidalgo has been here before?"
"Never. I have studied military history. Continue with your analysis."
"This deserted valley bothers me. I questioned the mercenary closely about it. He said they had met with no trouble since leaving Tortosa yesterday. He said that the governor there has pacified this area, but he admitted he saw no patrols and no civilians for the last few leagues, which I find odd."
"So what do procedure do you recommend, Campeador?"
"That we advance in stages, halting the main party every hour or so and sending scouts ahead."
The don twirled the points on his mustache. "Not bad for a commoner! This is traditional ambush country, and you recognized that. You have had military experience?"
Since Toby had decided to leave the don's company now—at least, he thought he had—he could ease himself out of the make-believe. A taste of reality might make the parting smoother. "A little, but I learned more while I was an apprentice in the Navarrian smuggling industry."
He expected to see shock and disapproval, but Don Ramon accepted the news calmly. "I saw the scars of the lash on your back this morning. You are a felon?"
"No, senor. The lash was part of my military experience. I told my sergeant he had the brains of a louse."
That admission was taken much more seriously, provoking a dangerous aristocratic scowl. "You should have been hanged. You are a deserter, of course. From what army?"
"From several. I give my loyalty voluntarily or not at all. It cannot be bought with force, senor."
"Yes, they should have hanged you. Troublemakers like you are best used as examples to the others. Now tell me what really happened to you while you were rounding up the horses this morning."
"I slipped and—"
"You take me for a fool?" The crazy blue eyes glared down at him. "I have seen men fresh from the strappado before." Don Ramon might be a maniac, but he had packed some rough-edged experience into his tender years.