Grudging (12 page)

F
ather Telo waited on the plush bench of the confessional booth instead of using the kneeler provided. Why rush discomfort when he could ponder great matters of sin and redemption just as well sitting? Light came through the mesh grill at the top of the box, and a smaller wooden lattice on the left wall gave access to petitioners come to speak with him. Otherwise, he might as well have been in a vertical coffin, closed in and dark. Much practice had taught him to accept the close walls, but he still swung the end of his triple-­rope belt worn over his robe, the emblems of his profession, unable to keep entirely still. Other might learn patience, but waiting never got any less tedious for him.

Strange that the siege would send him from visiting small mud churches to this grand cathedral in the center of Colina Hermosa, yet he'd spend most of his hours inside this little box. Whatever he could do to help—­and sitting here freed up another Father to venture outside among the ­people and lead by example. They who knew the city could best bestow calm and comfort. He was happy to assist where he could—­anything to serve Santiago and the ­people.

Telo muttered a swift prayer for the city's deliverance.

In the past, it had been saints, holy men, who led in times of crisis. Now they relied on politicians. The ways of God were not for him to judge, but if the Holy Father were by chance taking a nap or distracted by some heady matter of the universe, perhaps a few extra prayers could direct his attention back in their direction. Surely the blessed priests of this sacred cathedral were entitled to produce a miracle or two, especially if others asked for it.

He said another prayer just for good measure, then crossed a sandaled foot over his knee and thought about what Father Vellito might be making for dinner. Not exactly a saintly occupation, but his ample stomach wouldn't be denied. Santiago would forgive his lapse. The saint had forgiven much worse, and Telo was only a humble monk; he left great matters to his betters.

The door to the adjoining booth creaked open, and a weight jolted both confessionals as someone entered. Telo crossed mind, heart, spleen, and liver. “May the saints and our Lord be in your heart to make a good confessional today,” he said automatically. Let him give the right hope and comfort this time. Since the Northerners' arrival, tedious waiting for new petitioners was short, especially since the terrible events of that morning outside the walls. Telo smiled weakly.
Look to me for strength,
sayeth
the Lord
. And since the Lord was busy, the ­people accepted their priests as the closest substitute.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” said a familiar woman's voice. “It's been one day since my last confession.”

“Yes, my child,” Telo said automatically when First Wife Beatriz hesitated. He didn't even twitch at having the
Alcalde's
wife back so soon. She was one of those who spent much of their time at the church lately, and he suspected she exaggerated and prolonged her confession just to linger.

“These are my sins. I knew of my husband's plans to evacuate the children, and now they are captured.” She sniffled.

Telo waited, but no more seemed to be forthcoming. “Hmm,” he said for time to think. “Supporting your husband is not a sin. If only we had more such sinners as that, we'd have more happy marriages.”

“But the children are captured by the enemy. Who knows what is happening to them! And it is all my fault. Santiago, saintliest of God, have mercy on my sins. I should have spoken against it or told someone. Now my husband must go before the
concejales
for judgment. They question his motives!” She went on in a breathless rush. “The poor children. It breaks my heart.”

“You must pray for them.”

“Prayer doesn't seem enough.” First Wife Beatriz gasped. “I'm sorry, Father. That was wrong of me.”

Telo shook his head though she couldn't see it in the dim light of the booth. “
We
must all pray for them.” He looked at the dark skin over his prominent knuckles. Going from village to village, he had to make use of his own hands—­and sometimes his fists if bandits appeared—­as there were no servants for monks. Strong his hands might be, but they felt ineffective now, which he shared with Beatriz. “I have felt the same at times. It is easy to think prayer is not enough. Yet it is the greatest power we have in this life. That doesn't mean our faith in it doesn't waver. That's very natural, my child, and expected. In the case of the children, it doesn't seem enough—­they are innocents swallowed up by evil. But it is in times like these that we must hold on to faith even harder. Can you do that?”

“I shall, Father. I shall pray every minute.”

Telo smiled at the simplicity of her words. “That's all our Lord can ask.”

“Yet . . .” Her voice choked off.

“Yet what, my child?” he finally had to prod when it seemed she wouldn't say it otherwise.

“Oh, Father . . . If the
concejales
remove my husband from office, how can he help fix this? They might not believe that he acted rightly. That he took an unacceptable risk . . . and kept it secret. That his common sense lapsed.”

“That is not for me to judge. But what man opened the doors of this
ciudad-­estado
to all the poor villagers nearby to give them shelter? What man made sure the farmers were paid fairly for their crops and out of his own pocket, too? I don't believe anyone would question
Alcalde
Julian's motives.”

“And put together the group paying for the villagers' housing if they have no relatives to take them in,” she added proudly.

“As you say,” Telo agreed, “no man can question his motives.”

“But they do questions his choices. And Julian feels terrible guilt. He does more than hold himself responsible, he punishes himself. I'm so afraid he will do something foolish to make amends.”

Telo uncrossed his legs, sitting up straight. It was easy to imagine the
Alcalde's
pain. He would feel much the same were their positions reversed. “Your support, along with the Lord's, can help him through that, my child.”

“I try, but . . . I was hoping you would speak with him also.”

The triple-­rope belt fell out of his hands. “Me? You want the Bishop, I think.”

“Oh no,” Beatriz said quickly. “My husband and the Bishop hardly speak. They do not see eye to eye on things. Julian does not like . . . well . . . the holy Bishop . . . he has much learning and . . .”

“He's full of himself,” Telo supplied. “One is not blinded from pomposity for belonging to the church. Another priest perhaps?”

“That's exactly what I thought.” She leaned closer to the latticework. “
You
, Father Telo. You are the only kind of priest my husband will hear out. Julian is not as fond of religion as I. But it's my duty to see my husband gets the counsel of the church—­even if I have to be sneaky about it. You can catch him before his meeting with the
concejales
if you hurry to the citadel. You're the only one who can comfort him. Just like you've comforted me these last weeks.” Before he could say anything in response, she launched into a prayer.

“Santiago, I've examined my conscience, I've confessed my sins.” Beatriz rattled off. “I am sorry for my sins, and I'm determined to do my best to see that I live in You, and You in me. I ask your forgiveness and your grace. Amen.

Telo sat stumped. He'd just been bamboozled. “You could have just asked, my child.”

“Hurry, Father, unless you have a penance for me.”

He heaved a sigh. A penance might ease his heart, but it wasn't called for. What had he let himself get drawn into? Well, he'd wanted to help, and what bigger assistance than speaking to the
Alcalde
himself. “I absolve you of your sins, in the name of the Lord, and of Santiago and of the saints. Amen.” He moved to get up, but paused. “I cannot guarantee it will do any good.”

“But you'll go?”

“I'll go.” Telo opened the door of the booth and stepped into the light. He blinked, letting his eyes adjust, and tightened his rope belt. “May the saints and our Lord be in my heart today.”

Telo had a feeling he was going to need them.

 

CHAPTER 14

“H
i-­ya.” Ramiro's hands curled into fists as he backed from the unconscious Alvito and Gomez, gesturing to Teresa to stay and attend them. Alvito was his kin, best friend of his brother. Ramiro had tagged after the two of them since his legs were long enough to keep up. Alvito had shown him how to use knives and how to chase women. Gomez had taught him to use a sword, how to fight with his hands. The sergeant had dandled Ramiro on his knee and given him his first seat on a horse.

Throat tight, Ramiro turned, looking for the nit, and his gaze fell upon his brother's body, sending a fresh punch of pain to his gut.

By the saints, the magic couldn't be anything other than evil. They had journeyed here to save lives, and yet all they found was death.

He wrenched himself away, dodging through bushes toward where he'd left the witch's apprentice. A branch scratched at his face, and he tore it loose savagely, breaking it into a thousand pieces and casting it away. She lay with her limbs sprawled in all directions, and her neck turned at an unnatural angle. A dark bruise stood out on her throat.

His work.

No—­not mine
.

More evil done by the magic. He'd never have hurt her otherwise. He saw now she was older than he thought, closer to his own age. What he took for skinniness was in fact a matter of small bones, giving her the slenderness of a child.

For the space of a sigh, he stood still, wishing she were dead. If that were so, he could forget Alvito's orders and stay with his friends. Stay with Salvador. But he couldn't pretend her chest wasn't moving in even breaths. She lived.

And she had the same skill as the cursed witch, meaning she might be Colina Hermosa's only hope.

Yet he had no intention of letting her work any magic on them. Never again. They'd given the witch nothing more harmful than words, and she had gone for blood. This girl had to be tamed or controlled although Ramiro doubted the witches could ever be brought to hear reason. Not after what he had witnessed.

Not after seeing his friends and brother murdered. He forced himself to relax, thinking of the precepts.

Thinking of reasons why he
shouldn't
kill this witch.

C
laire woke to dampness seeping through her clothing, but that small annoyance was quickly replaced with a throbbing pain in her head and neck so violent, she wanted to spew her stomach contents. Where was her mother? Her jaw ached, and a dry taste filled her mouth. Something gummed and matted her eyes, making them difficult to open. She tried to reach to clear them only to be brought up short. A restraint bound her arms and legs, giving her little movement.

She forced her eyes open to focus on leather straps cutting into her skin at wrists, elbows, ankles, and knees. She worked her mouth, but couldn't close it. The dry taste came from a rag stuffed between her teeth. More straps secured around her head held it in place. Trying to get her feet under her resulted in such a sharp pain to her head that it set her ears humming and her sight darkening with encroaching unconsciousness, making it a necessity to sit absolutely still.

Her breaths came fast and sharp, but panic worsened the pain, so she fought it back. Forced herself to figure out her situation: What happened? Who did this to her? It was hard to concentrate on anything, so she tried to focus as her mother had taught her.

She'd been deposited in a small clearing among the blueberry bushes, in a puddle of swamp water judging by the wetness. The sun beat down on her, reddening her skin. Directly across from her, only a short distance away, two bearded men lay in the shade of a clump of the bushes. In a raised dry spot, they'd been covered in blankets despite the heat, and supply bags sat around them. Two unsaddled horses of mottled gray waited nearby. Swords lay within the men's easy reach. She tilted her head for a better view. Their chests rose and fell slowly.
An odd time to nap in the middle of the afternoon
.

Movement at the edge of her vision caught her attention. She ignored the blast of fresh pain as she hopped on her bottom, allowing her to swivel. A man—­no, a youth with dark stubble on his face—­rolled a dead body in blankets with the help of a shorter, fat man with an arm in a sling. The youth wore the uniform of one of the city-­states, a sword at his hip. He looked the part of the nobles her mother had described, and for the first time she could understand the contempt toward those from the cities. He looked like a strutting fool, wearing the costume of someone he wasn't. The fat man, on the other hand, was dressed in a peasant poncho under the mud that covered him. His pants were held up by a rope belt.

But they were free to move about, and she was stuck here, nearly overcome with pain.

They were the ones who had tied her up, then. She'd been picking blueberries. She vaguely remembered the youth pinning her to the ground. Minutes later, she'd heard her mother's magic, and the youth had gone berserk, throttling her.

And that's when she'd lost time.

As if sensing her scrutiny, the one-­armed peasant turned, and Claire saw it was a woman. An ugly woman in pants, with hair cropped short. Tears burned in Claire's dry eyes. Why would a woman do this to her?

The youth and the woman hefted the covered body to the back of another unsaddled horse, and Claire's world fell apart. Behind them, her mother . . . rested on her side in the grass and . . . a giant wound . . . a bloody wound . . .

Sobs tore at Claire's throat. Tears streamed as she toppled over into the mud.
Her mother. It couldn't be.
She screamed her shock, but the gag muffled the sound inside, trapping her jaws. Her stomach heaved, sending up bile that couldn't escape. She choked on the rag in her mouth. Her nose clogged. And suddenly she couldn't breathe. She thrashed across the wet ground, trying to free the straps about her mouth, but only succeeded in making it worse.

Hands dragged her upright. The gag came off, and someone thumped her back as she spewed into the wet grass and weeds. She choked and retched, blinded by tears, until gradually she cleared her airway enough to breathe easier. As soon as her rapid panting ceased, hands roughly thrust the gag back into her mouth and secured it by the straps again.

“No magic,” the youth said. His eyes blazed with anger.

Anger at what, Claire couldn't imagine. She was the one being mistreated, while he was free. Murderers. They had killed her mother. She matched his gaze with a white-­hot glare.

The peasant woman helped Claire to a more comfortable sitting position. “No time for that, cousin,” she told the youth. “It will be dark soon, and we haven't an extra horse. If we're doing this, I want to cross the lake before nightfall.”

The youth retreated to add more bindings around the body aboard the tallest horse while the woman went to fuss around the blanketed men. As they left her alone, Claire's fury faded though the hatred remained like a tiny flame in her chest.

She glanced around, anticipating her freedom. The murderers had obviously gotten what they came for—­her mother's death. Since they hadn't killed her already, they'd release her and be on their way. Wouldn't they?

Her body didn't accept that wishful thinking. Her limbs trembled uncontrollably like they were gripped by the first killing frost of the season instead of under the warm sun.

Think.
Had they said anything about her? Her brow wrinkled. What had the peasant woman meant? There were plenty of horses if someone rode double. Why would they need another? And why didn't the two men under the blankets get up and help? From the way the peasant woman held a flask to their lips, they were either sick or injured.

Not enough horses?

The youth headed in her direction with a rope, and Claire's heart skipped. They didn't have enough horses unless they were bringing another . . .

The murderers weren't leaving her. They were taking her!

The pounding ache in her head shot up in intensity. Face set in cold hatred, the murderer reached for her, and Claire shrank away. He's the one who'd hurt her. She couldn't stand for him to touch her again. He grabbed her roughly, yanking her to her trembling feet. Despite her efforts to evade him, he wound the rope around her already-­bound arms, and then fastened it around his torso in a knot. A quick flick of a knife split the leather straps around her legs, setting them free.

To Claire's surprise, he went to the reclining men, forcing her to follow. Sweat covered their bearded faces. She could only stare from the bloodstained blankets covering them to their drawn faces. They were awfully hairy. The youth dropped to one knee and bowed his head.

“By Santiago, I vow to do my duty and reach Colina Hermosa with this witch.” He reached out to touch one of the men's knees. “I won't fail you.” Claire had never seen a face so wiped clean of emotion.

He turned to the peasant woman with a tight jaw. “Ready, cousin?”

They left the two men and went to the only saddled horse. The rope pulled Claire along even as she fought to hang back. The youth was too strong. And once more she was reminded how her mother had always warned: Men used their physical strength to dominate.

Her pain, her despair—­they mean nothing to this callous boy.

Yet again the youth surprised her. Instead of taking the mount for himself, he helped the peasant woman climb awkwardly to the animal's back. She'd been taught city men were selfish, especially ones with any power. What she saw shook that, but just as quickly she dismissed her doubt. Obviously, he only did so because of the peasant woman's sling.

Without a single glance in her direction, the youth took the reins of that horse and the one with the body, then turned toward the stagnant waters of the swamp. Claire set her feet. What was happening? Why were they taking her and abandoning their obviously ill comrades? Why not take the extra horses if the sick men couldn't use them? Why bring the body of their dead friend?

Body
. . .

Her mother! They were forcing her to leave her mother to rot in the mud like some animal they'd slaughtered without a second thought. Leaving her for beasts to devour and bugs to crawl over.

Strength blazed through her, overcoming her pain. Claire pulled back on the rope connecting her to the murderer and threw herself at her mother. She sank down to her knees and refused to budge when the youth tugged. The city ­people turned; it was their turn to be surprised.

“On your feet!” the youth yelled. “Walk!”

Claire matched his glare, wishing her mouth free. How she'd like to scream her loathing right back at the horrible murderer. She shook her head, working her legs deeper into the loose ground next her mother's body. The youth hauled on the rope, and she found herself being dragged by inches. Again she shook her head and toppled backward in an attempt to make it harder for him.

“By the saints,” the woman called. “Stop, cousin. This won't work. You're not going to outhate the little witch.” Awkwardly, the peasant woman clambered down from her horse and came to kneel beside Claire.

“My name is Teresa,” the peasant said calmly. “That angry hellhound is Ramiro, and we need you to walk.” She glanced toward Claire's mother and back to Claire. “I realize this must look bad to you, but we have no intentions of being your enemy. In fact, we wanted to be your friend. We wanted to be
her
friend.”

Claire stared. This Teresa was insane. How could they come claiming friendship after their actions? She sat up and rocked her legs to sink deeper into the mud. Trying to show the woman she wouldn't cooperate. Not for anything. She'd never leave her mother's side.

Ramiro spit out an angry oath. “For heaven's sake, I'll carry her.”

Teresa turned, looking irritated though her voice held none of it. “Cousin, you cannot lead two horses and manage her. Not through the swamp. Let me reason with her.”

“She is not to talk!” Ramiro said. “Don't let her free to work her magic.”

“Settle, cousin. I'll do the talking.” Teresa arranged her hands on her knees as though to show her patience. “I'm sorry we must keep you tied. After what happened with the other . . . you must understand.”

Claire shook her head, trying to make the woman understand. Trying to understand herself.

“It was a terrible misunderstanding that turned into a disaster,” Teresa continued. “We came to speak with a . . . witch. To seek help. And, well, she reacted badly. Salvador—­our leader—­is dead. The others are hurt. And she”—­Teresa pointed to Claire's mother—­“is dead, which, I assure you, is the last thing we wanted. So now we must take you. It's the magic, you see.”

Claire shook her head again. She didn't see. Did they want a Woman of the Song or magic from one?

“The Northerners are laying siege to our home. They've already defeated a number—­”

“She doesn't need to know that.” Ramiro paced between the two horses. His face set, the cording of the tendons in his neck demonstrating his irritation. “Can you get her to walk or no?”

Teresa rolled her eyes, gesturing to the covered body and lowering her voice. “Young men have little control. Salvador was his brother.” She cleared her throat. “We want something, and so do you. Can we make an exchange?”

Claire worked her jaw, producing growls as fury built. Help the murderers?
Never.

“I don't want to see you hurt again,” Teresa said. “But time is of the essence, and he'll knock you out and carry you. I've seen how much duty means to them. You'll come with us no matter what. Better to get something out of it and come on your own two feet.”

The peasant woman reached out to wipe mud from Claire's face, and Claire ducked away. “Murderers,” she shouted, but the gag reduced it to inarticulate noise.