Somewhere back along the line, Eulalia laughed. She was a problem much worse than homesickness! One night they'd gone off into the bushes together, and she hadn't protested when he kissed her—she'd started unlacing his hose. She had shown him what to do next when he wasn't sure, and in no time at all he'd achieved what he'd been wanting to do for years. He'd thought of it as a great victory. But it wasn't. It had turned out to be a terrible defeat, because now he kept wanting to do it again.
He did not like Eulalia, and she did not like him, and they had told each other so several times. But they both enjoyed what they did with each other. Not that she admitted it. If he did not ask her, she would not ask him. No, she would just tease him until she had him begging and promising anything she wanted. She was very good at that. He knew he was taking a terrible risk of getting her with child, if he hadn't already. Or she would say he had whether he had or not, and when they arrived in Barcelona Senora Collel would throw her out in the gutter. Then Hamish Campbell would find himself having to marry a woman he didn't want. Every morning he swore he would not succumb again, and at sunset she would melt all the lumps out of him with one glance from her sultry Spanish eyes. Why was he so weak? Why did women have this awful power over men?
Why couldn't he be like Toby and not need women?
A shout from the rear turned his head. Something was wrong. The don wheeled his horse and went charging back to see, followed slowly by Francisco. Everyone else was stopping. Hamish directed Liath around a patch of bushes, watching to make sure the train followed without any stupid quadruped trying to take a shortcut, and then led the way back. By the time he arrived at the group he could guess that the problem was Brother Bernat.
He dismounted. "What happened?"
Josep said, "The Franciscan. He reined in and said he felt faint. We helped him down..."
Hauled back almost on his haunches, Smeòrach skidded to a halt in a shower of mud. Toby flung himself from the saddle and plunged into the group, hurling Manuel and Rafael and others aside. Hamish sighed to himself and waited. Toby was fond of the old man and grateful for that strange healing he had gained from him. He was going to be upset if this was the end.
"How bad?"
Josep shrugged. He said, "Can't tell," but his face said very bad.
Hamish surveyed the countryside. The village Toby had just visited was only a mile or so off, on a low hill, but even from here it was obvious that the roofs had fallen in and the walls were blackened. The tower of the sanctuary was a stump, so there would be no spirit there and probably no people either. The town was just one more casualty of the terrible war, and he wondered why Toby had even bothered going to investigate it.
Then Toby's head rose above the others again. The watchers parted for him, and he emerged with Brother Bernat cradled in his arms. The old man's face, the color of skim milk, nestled against Toby's shoulder. His lips were blue, and his eyes not merely closed but sunk back into his skull. Toby went past Hamish without a word and set off along the road with huge strides. If he was looking for a place to dig a grave, why so much hurry?
Father Guillem and Pepita scurried after, running to try and catch him. Apparently they were heading for the village, but Toby's sword was hung on Smeòrach's saddle, so they had gone unarmed. Hamish detached his own blade from Liath, slung the baldric over his head, and thrust the reins at Josep.
"Look after them."
Josep's protests that he couldn't handle the train faded away as Hamish went racing after the others.
Toby was running up the hill, setting a fearful pace in spite of his burden. The monk flapped along behind him like a giant bat, holding Pepita's hand. Glancing back, Hamish saw that the others were following, but at a leisurely pace. The don would probably make them wait outside the gates, because the horses might break legs in the ruins, even if there were no thieves lurking there.
He caught up with Father Guillem, whose face was as red as a furnace door. Pepita would obviously be weeping if she had any breath to do so. What was all the burning hurry?
"There can't possibly be a spirit up here!" Hamish panted.
The monk said, "No," and kept right on going.
Hamish ran past them, slipped on a patch of mud, caught his scabbard between his legs, and fell flat on his face. Cursing in a mixture of Gaelic and Catalan, he scrambled to his feet and discovered he had wrenched an ankle. He switched to Breton and Castilian and began to run again in a wild, painful hobble.
He went by the child and Father Guillem a second time. Toby had almost reached the shattered town gate, and a couple of men had appeared, watching his approach. Hamish drove himself even faster, steadying his sword with one hand so he didn't make a fool of himself again. Why were they doing this? Did the old man just want to die in a shrine, even if it had no tutelary? Was this some Franciscan custom?
Toby slowed to a fast walk and went through the gateway with the two men following and Hamish at their heels. They glanced around and then ignored Hamish, following a few paces behind Toby. They were making no move to molest him and did not seem to be armed, but Hamish decided to stay at their backs and keep an eye on them.
The road was narrow and dim in the rain, but it was not obstructed by debris and gruesome bodies as the streets of Onda had been. Although most of the buildings were unroofed and stank of burned timber, the village was inhabited, and the residents had made a start on cleaning up and rebuilding. People began emerging from alleys and doorways, men and women both, even a few ragged children. Toby seemed to know where he was leading this procession, crossing a couple of tiny plazas without hesitation and apparently heading for the stump of a tower that marked the sanctuary.
When he reached it he ran up the steps and turned around. His face was red with effort and his chest heaved. The old man in his arms was showing no signs of life, but Toby nodded approval and went into the sanctuary. There couldn't be a spirit in there, or the hob would have stopped him, so what was he doing?
Hamish followed with the crowd at his heels. The building was open to the sky, a burned shell, but the floor had been swept clear. Most of the tracery had gone from the windows, the little that remained still holding a few pathetic fragments of stained glass. Throne, candles, images, pictures had all gone. Only the carved altar on the dais at the far end survived, its cracked and blackened stonework showing traces of gilt and paint.
Toby advanced almost to the altar steps and halted, still holding Brother Bernat in his arms. The spectators gathered in silence behind him, watching intently. Hamish wished he knew what was going on, because everybody else seemed to. He went forward to see if he could help. He could hear the old man breathing in a faint rattle that made him want to cough.
Toby knelt. Hamish took off his wet cloak and spread it on the flagstones so he could lay the old man down. One of the villagers spread another cloak over him. Then they all just waited in the rain, Toby on his knees, everyone else standing. If the spirit was still present, it was ignoring them. There must be many more comfortable places to die.
More people were drifting in. Father Guillem arrived, pushing forward to the front with Pepita in tow. The child knelt and took the dying man's hand, sobbing, not saying anything. For a moment he seemed to rouse. His eyelids flickered but did not open.