Next in line were the Brusi packhorses, with Josep leading them while chatting with Father Guillem. The stringy, unassertive youth and massive, forceful cleric were an odd but fortunate pairing for a necessary discussion:
"Father, Josep, may we have a word about provisions? The mercenaries inform us that there is food to be bought in Tortosa."
"As I am excessively tired of horseflesh," the monk declaimed in his rumbling voice, "that is good news. Brother Bernat carries no money, of course, but I shall provide for him and the child."
Josep caught Toby's eye briefly and looked away with a quiet smile. "I expect the prices will be exorbitant. Would an advance upon your fee come in useful, Campeador?"
"Very much so, senor. And while I should never dare inquire, I suspect the don may also be running a little low on ready cash."
"That would not surprise me."
As a person, the boy was twice the man his father had been. Whether he could be ruthless enough to run the family business, only time would tell.
"Would you be so generous as to have a word with Squire Francisco on the matter?"
"Ah yes, the squire." Josep smiled gently at the landscape. "I shall certainly speak with the old warrior.
There was no overt hint there, but the choice of words suggested that Josep had guessed the lady's secret. Toby wondered who else had. Certainly not Senora Collel, or she would have told everyone by now.
So the food problem was solved. The senora and the Thunderbolt contingent both seemed to have adequate supplies left, as did Josep himself. That left the Inquisition. The domineering monk was more practical than Brother Bernat, although much less likeable. Guillem still believed that Toby should have put his fighting skills at the disposal of his rightful feudal overlord, whoever that might be. The two of them had come to a wary truce, though, and the cleric might be a valuable advisor on strategy. A little tactical bending of the truth could be justified:
"Father, the mercenary we met mentioned the possibility of the Inquisition examining travelers crossing the bridge at Tortosa." Johnson had discussed the subject, after all, even if he had not brought it up himself. "Do you suppose that Jaume and myself, being foreigners, may be harassed there?"
Father Guillem uttered a deep rumble like distant thunder. "That is very bad news! The Inquisition is notoriously self-willed and answerable to no one. If the inquisitors so choose, they could hold us up for days or even weeks. They are very skilled at asking the questions that will obtain the sort of answers they want. Before you know it, you find you have accused somebody of something, or even confessed to it yourself. It may be wise for me to pass the word around about this, Campeador. You will not mind?"
"I should be very grateful if you would, Father."
"The main thing is to keep your answers short and absolutely truthful." The monk peered around Josep to fix his penetrating stare on Toby. "For example, this morning you fell and twisted your shoulder. Brother Bernat massaged it for you. There is no harm in that. But add some speculation, and it could become something the Inquisition would feel bound to investigate at length. They might devote years to it. You understand what I am saying, my son?"
He was saying that he knew a lot more about Brother Bernat than Toby did. He must know all about Toby and the hob, too, for the friar had been going to tell him the story.
"I understand very well, Father."
"For my part," Josep said cheerfully to no one in particular, "on this journey I have neither heard nor seen anything worth bothering any learned inquisitors with."
"Good!" Father Guillem boomed. "But if they tell you that others have said they did and ask why you are not confirming this testimony, what do you say?"
Josep looked at him in surprise, then at Toby. He frowned, less sure of himself now. "That isn't very nice, is it? I stick to my original statement, of course."
"And if you are told that you yourself have been accused of demonic practices?"
"I deny it vehemently."
"And you stick to your original story?" Father Guillem demanded.
"Like glue," Josep said nervously. "What of Senora de Gomez?"
The monk frowned. "I shall speak with the women at once, if you will excuse me."
He stopped to wait for them. The others walked on.
"What about Gracia?" Toby inquired cautiously.
"She has strange fancies, poor girl. You understand," Josep said apologetically, "that I am much concerned about my father. It is a bad thing when a man must be buried in unconsecrated ground, far from the domain of a spirit to nurture his soul. Father Guillem has been of much consolation to me. But on the night after my father's death—we had not gone far, you will recall—Senora de Gomez came and told me that she had seen his wraith and had taken it into her care! She is going to transport it to Montserrat, she said. Naturally, I pretended to believe her and to be comforted by her words. I fear the loss of her husband and children has addled her wits, Senor Toby."
"I think you are right. It is very sad. There is no harm in her delusions, except when they upset other persons, such as yourself."
"The Inquisition might disagree with you," Josep said softly.
"It might indeed. Let us hope she will be discreet if we meet the inquisitors. But may I ask what solace Father Guillem offered you?"
"Ah." The boy smiled as if to imply he did not really believe what he was about to say. "He admits that when the rebels ravaged the land, their hexers also plundered all the shrines and sanctuaries of the guardians, but he insists that other spirits will eventually replace them, and that they will then gather any wandering wraiths to them, so the souls of the dead will be comforted. He has almost persuaded me to continue to Montserrat with him, so that the tutelary may confirm what he says. He is an acolyte there, after all."
"And a learned one." Very odd! Where were these new spirits to come from? His hob plight had made Toby curious about the ways of the immortals, but this doctrine was new to him. He would not ask more, for it seemed unkind to scratch at Josep's emotional scars. He would query Father Guillem or Brother Bernat some time. "That is good news, for how else can this land ever recover? Who would live in a town without a tutelary?"
After a few more minutes, he left Josep and caught up with Pepita and the friar. The old man eyed him with a tolerant smile.
"How is your breathing coming, my son?"
"I find I need my lungs too much for talking, Father, but tonight I will practice very earnestly, I promise you."
"I still see two of you!" Pepita said mischievously.
"Little demon!" The friar tweaked her ear fondly. "She will not say such things to any strangers we may meet."
Could a child resist the Inquisition's cunning interrogation?
"Father, I know I promised not to ask questions." Toby presumed that the questions he was not to ask concerned Brother Bernat himself and his strange little ward. (Why and how did the child see two of him? There was a real mystery there.) He hoped that queries concerning his own problem would be permitted. "My friend Jaume has asked one that I cannot answer. May I report his doubts to you, on the understanding that you are not required to comment?"
The old man guffawed in a way Toby had not heard from him before. "Report it, then."
"He wonders why the visions I see are so apt. Out of what may be many days or weeks, the hob lets me remember each time only a few hours or even minutes. He points out that it seems to choose intervals that are especially significant. Most of them have been very dramatic warnings."
Brother Bernat nodded approvingly. "He is a perceptive young man. It even chooses episodes that are of particular concern to you—like you cutting off Jaume's head, for example—and ignores what should be of importance to itself. You do not recall the baron exorcizing it, or the moment at which it realizes the tormentors are killing you."