Grudging (20 page)

She held Pietro in his face. “Daddy is being funny. Our sons are running around out there—­in danger. What about your responsibility to our family? What about your responsibility to this city? Now and forever?” She cradled the dog under her arm. “Sometimes you need to let things go. The children weren't your fault.”

“It was my fault.” He sighed. “I took the risk. I had to make it right. Now what is happening?”

“Prepare to open the gate,” a voice shouted.

Her mouth pursed as she straightened his jacket. “It wasn't your responsibility. Whatever
this plan
of yours is, you shouldn't have done it.” She cleared her throat with a huff. “There's a large group headed toward us from the enemy camp. The nice young men atop the wall tell me they believe it is the captured children. Or the Northerners have some very short warriors.

“Give me this,” she said, drawing the shawl off his shoulders. “Looking silly in front of everyone,” she mumbled under her breath. “Going behind his wife's back and thinking she's not smart enough to know. Men. Babies are what they are. Underhanded, is what it is. Overinflated sense of honor.”

The gate commander strolled up, giving Beatriz a wide berth. “A group of children, sir. From the Northerner army. The best eyes report there are two priests with them. We'll be opening the gate, with your permission, sir.”

“Excellent,” Julian said. Beatriz raised an eyebrow as if to mock their asking his authorization. No doubt the commander had thrown that in to try to assist his situation. The soldier didn't understand that Beatriz was just relieving her feelings and was all bark and no bite.

Murmurs and joyful smiles broke out from the crowd of waiting family members at this official news.

Beatriz slid one cool hand around his arm. “Shall we greet them, husband,” she said in her stage voice. “We'll talk about this later,” came in a whisper for his ears alone.

An icy flutter of fear ran through Julian's gut, and he clutched her arm tight. “I love you,
mi amor.
” He very much doubted they would talk again. Not if the children were returning. He straightened his back to meet his fate head-­on. It was done, and he was glad for it. He'd lived his life; let the children and their families have theirs.

The bronze gate opened, and he drank in the sight of the children limping through it. Family members pushed forward with cries and tears. The small girl who lost her rag doll clutched her grandfather as if she'd never let go. A boy showed welts on his wrist to his sobbing mother. More ­people pushed into the crowded courtyard, and more and more children were claimed. It was well they were saved, but many parents remained calling for news, looking in vain. The sight tore at Julian, dragging him between joy and heartbreak.

“
Alcalde
Alvarado.
Alcalde
Alvarado,” ­people burst in a ragged cheer that soon grew stronger as more voices united. “
Alcalde
Alvarado!”

Beatriz nodded as if taking the credit for him. She understood it only embarrassed him.

The two scouts came last through the gate. Vimaro, his grizzled face a strange contrast to his humble priest garb, handed the child he carried to a clutching father and turned to Julian. “Halfway successful,
Alcalde
. It was too late to rescue the older children.” A slight tightening of the taciturn scout's brow was the only sign he cared one way or the other.

“Too late.” Julian touched mind and heart. The poor mothers and fathers. The crushing guilt returned.

“The saints watch over them and secure them a place with our Lord,” Beatriz prayed.

Julian had to know if the other purpose of this mission had succeeded before the Northerners took him. “Did you learn what we needed?” he asked the scout. “Where is Father Telo? I don't see him here.”

Beatriz released his arm. “Father Telo? My priest? You sent my priest to the Northerners?”

“He volunteered, Beatriz.”

“They didn't want you, sir,” Vimaro said. “They traded the children for the priest. He told me so himself. He stayed behind. Bravest thing—­”

“You offered to trade yourself?” Beatriz's voice rose to a shout, drawing the eyes of everyone in the courtyard. The little hairball began to yip. “That was your—­”

Julian dragged her close, suddenly in need of her support. His knees seemed to have gone weak, though whether it was relief at his safety or regret at the loss of the priest, he couldn't say. The way Beatriz settled her shawl with a snap said this discussion wasn't over. “The layout of the camp,” he pressed, praying for a positive answer. “Did you find what we need?”

“Aye, sir. That we did. We know just where their leadership is camped.”

At last, some luck among the tragedy. “Then get to the strategy room. We have a raid to plan.”

 

CHAPTER 22

R
amiro spun at the voice. “Bromisto?”

The boy crouched under a tree. The bare skin of his chest and arms glowed pale. Ramiro slapped him on the back. “You're alive!”

A young woman waited next to him, her hand on his arm. Slender and not much taller than the boy, her hair, skin, and eyes were all various shades of brown. She carried a bag slung over one shoulder and wore a light-­colored homespun dress.

“Bromisto?” she said with a laugh. “Is that what they call you?”

“You escaped the village!” Teresa was laughing and crying at once as she slid down from Sancha and seized the boy in a fierce hug. Ramiro barely restrained himself from joining them, but hurry pulled at him.

“And you escaped the
sirenas
,” Bromisto said, his face squeezed against Teresa's shoulder. She released him and stepped back.

“Two of us did,” Ramiro said gravely.

“Then the others?” Bromisto's face crumpled. “Your brother and the great soldiers? I tried to warn you. The
sirenas
. They are bad. Nothing but bad.”

Ramiro thought of the witch girl. How her big eyes focused on him as she sat bound to a tree. The meek way she'd let Teresa feed her. How she'd snuck away without harming either of them.

Then he remembered the Northerners butchering the mules and how they'd mutilated the dead bodies of those scouts, which seemed like so long ago.

He knew exactly which one he could live with and which one he'd prefer to squish under his shoe like a scorpion that crawled from under a rock. But this wasn't the time to argue enemy virtues with the boy. Perhaps later there would be a chance to persuade Bromisto they needed help to find the witch girl—­if any of them still lived by morning.

“Go with Teresa,” Ramiro said. “She and my horse will see you to Colina Hermosa, where you'll be safe. This is no place for children.”

“Children.” The young woman at Bromisto's side straightened and pushed at loose hair that had escaped her coiled braid. “I'm older than you are. You haven't even got a proper beard. We're not going anywhere. Our ­people—­”

“This is man talk, Elo,” Bromisto interrupted. “You stick to healing.”

Elo crossed her arms over her chest but held her tongue.

Bromisto turned to Ramiro. “You sure you don't want to marry her? Father will give two goats for her dowry. Think it over. She's not ugly when her hair is combed.”

Elo huffed, and her scowl deepened. “My brother's name is Ermegildo, not trickster. It's pretty and dainty, just like a flower.”

“Elo! Then should I remind them how you said Ramiro has pretty eyes?”

“Enough,” Ramiro said. “There are more important things, like getting you to safety.”

The boy gestured into the trees. “I said we could help kill these beardless men, and we can. Come this way.” Bromisto turned and disappeared into the bushes with a rustle of leaves.

Ramiro stared at the frowning girl, who shrugged. “Come on.” Elo too vanished.

“We should hear them out,” Teresa said. “What could it hurt?”

“It's wasting time.” A glance over his shoulder showed three huts were alight, and all the Northerners not guarding the prisoners were looting the remaining huts. He couldn't find the figure in white.

The boy didn't even have so much as a knife for a weapon. Ramiro sighed. Yet if Bromisto could offer help, Ramiro was going to accept it. He was not so eager to die. And dying alone would do nothing to help the prisoners. “Let's go.”

Bromisto took them through the underbrush, keeping the glow from the burning village over their left shoulders. Struggling to get Sancha through the thick growth, Ramiro fretted about the loss of time until he was sure his spleen would explode. At last, they entered a clearing where several sullen-­faced men rose from scratching something on the ground to meet them. Ramiro counted six village men, all with stout cudgels, and behind them, a flock of dark-­haired women and children, looking none the better for being roused from their houses in the middle of the night. This was their help?

“You found a
ciudad
man and his ugly woman, Ermegildo,” the short bent figure of Bromisto's father said. “Why did you bring them here?”

“A fighter,
Papá
. He's a fighter. And he has real weapons.”

“And why would a
ciudad
man help the likes of us?”

Bromisto lifted his chin. “Because he's nice. He was going to take on the beardless men alone.”

The leader of the villagers lifted his arm as if to cuff the boy. Ramiro stepped between them. He didn't think a litany of the creed from his
pelotón
would make an impression on this hard man. What would Salvador do?

He put a hand to the hilt of his sword. “Because they are my enemy, and they hurt
children
.”

At the warning in his voice, Bromisto's father took a step back. The other village men came forward to make a solid front, cudgels raised.

Ramiro held his ground. “I want the Northerners dead. You want the Northerners dead. Every minute we glare at each other is a minute wasted.”

Bromisto's father scratched at his beard, then he slowly offered his hand. “I am Suero. We could use the help of your weapons.”

“Ramiro. I have a spare bow. Does anyone know how to use it? With bows and your cudgels, we could set an ambush.”

A surprising smile bloomed on Suero's face, making him look younger. “I like the way you think,
ciudad
man. One of us can use this bow. Our aim will be as good as yours.”

Murmurs of agreement came from the other men.

Whether their aim was true or not, it would be helpful to keep the Northerners off-­balance and draw them deeper into the ambush. Ramiro pointed at the village women, standing on the far side of the clearing, then at Teresa. “First, we get them to safety.” Sending so many to Colina Hermosa was not practical or wise. Not with the Northerner army between there and the swamp. “The other side of the swamp lake: Would that make a good meeting place? Somewhere the Northerners can't find, but where the civilians could go.”

“So I had already decided,” Suero said, grandly. “Ermegildo, take the women there.”

Ramiro expected the boy to complain, but Bromisto merely ducked his shoulders and nodded. “Yes,
Papá
.”

“We could use the boy here,” Ramiro said. “Someone needs to collect the prisoners when we draw off the Northerners. Guide them to safety.”

Elo straightened. “I can take the others to the lake,
Papá
. I know the way as well as Ermegildo.” The young woman's eyes flashed with pride. “Leave it to me.”

Suero grunted. “Try not to get them lost.”

Teresa stepped close. “I'm staying here to help, cousin,” she whispered. “I don't trust these ­people.”

Ramiro shook his head. He didn't trust the adults either, but he thought Bromisto was another story. He hoped the boy wouldn't willfully deceive them. “Go with them. Alvito and Gomez are there. Perhaps . . .” It was hard to even consider. “You can find them enough dry land to give them a burial. And I'm counting on you to organize the refugees and hold them together. Be their leader.”

Her full-­armed hug caught him by surprise. “You'll meet me on the other side of the lake?” Teresa asked. “We'll hunt for the witch girl together.”

“On my honor, sister.”

She tucked her head under his chin, and he squeezed her wide frame. “We are double
sangre
kin,” he said soberly. “I've saved your life, and we've gone through more hardship together than with any of my
pelotón
comrades. You are the one and only sister of my heart.”

“Brother,” she said, eyes shining. “It has a solid ring to it.” She gave him a playful punch over heart, spleen, and liver, then tapped his forehead with a finger. “At the lakeside, brother.”

He retrieved the rest of his armor from Sancha, then drew free Salvador's sword. He held it carefully. This and the bow were the only things of his brother he'd kept back.

“Sancha, go with Teresa.”

Teresa gave him a surprised look, and he forced a reassuring smile. “It's too tight here. Sancha won't be able to maneuver or help in a fight. She'll only be in danger.”

“Much like myself.” Teresa took Sancha's reins. The horse rolled her eyes and lifted her upper lip to show her teeth. “I'll keep her safe at the lake. Whether she wants me to or not.”

“Go,” Ramiro instructed with a slap to the mare's shoulder. “Behave. Do what Teresa says.” He had little hope the stubborn animal would listen for long, but Sancha quieted and let Teresa hold the reins.

Teresa stepped away and quickly vanished into the darkness after the women and children. A hollow opened in the pit of Ramiro's stomach as he began strapping on armor. In the clearing with six strangers, Ramiro had never felt so alone.

I
n the light of the raging fires, Ramiro stood three arrows upright in the muddy ground and prayed to Santiago that he got all three off before the Northerners reached him. The more he culled the Northern numbers before the close fighting, the better his chances.

Suero had chosen the ambush spot wisely. The brush was thick here. Only a narrow path ran through it. Ramiro couldn't see any of the already-­hidden village men. The ground rose upward at a steep incline where the clearing in front of the village met the forest, meaning the Northerners would have to climb the muddy slope. It should slow them. The incline would also add to his bow's range.

It all depended on whether the Northerners could be goaded. He counted on their losing their heads and forgetting discipline, letting him draw them after the ambush started. After all, it had proved not so difficult on the last reconnaissance mission with his
pelotón
.

Seconds passed too slowly as they waited for Bromisto to skirt around to the opposite end of the clearing and get into position. The man Suero had picked to be the second archer was off to the side, waiting to take the Northerners as they tackled the slope.

However, the Northerners hadn't been waiting. By the time they'd set the ambush, the Northerners had finished with the village and turned their attentions to the prisoners. An old, gray-­bearded man had been pulled from the huddle of captives. As Ramiro watched helplessly, the one in white directed two men to hold the old man, while a third hacked off his hands and then decapitated him in one sweep. Ramiro felt sick, but rushing in to save the old man would only doom their plan and the rest of the panicked prisoners.

Whatever the outcome, this time he had put thought into it and did not run ahead without a plan. Salvador would be pleased.

“Ready,
ciudad
man?” Suero spat into the mud. “You're sure they have no bows?”

“Reasonably sure.” He hadn't seen any on any other infantry they'd met. They seemed to reserve bows for the troops camped around Colina Hermosa. Ramiro donned his helmet. “More of the children from my city will have been sent to your swamp. If something happens to me, I ask that you gather them and guide them to safety where the Northerners won't find them.”

“And what would be in it for me?”

“I'm about to try to save your village.”

Suero nodded to the prisoners. “More of them are your ­people than mine.”

Ramiro knew it would come to this, just as Suero must have. He had no delusions of the village leader's goodness of heart or loyalty. Suero had traded with the witches for years, then sold them out for a few bags of trinkets. He would hit his own child. Not a man Ramiro wanted for an ally. But perhaps he could be bought and have enough honesty to stay bought.

He took Salvador's sword from its sheath on his back. Bile filled his mouth, but he said the words anyway. “Payment enough.”

Suero's eyes gleamed brighter than the steel as he took the sword into his hands. “Payment accepted. For this, I'll see every brat from your city to the swamp lake and out of the pale men's hands. For this, I'll make them part of my own family.”

“If you go back on your word, and I live, I'll kill you myself.”

“You can try. But Suero never goes back on a bond once given. Start it, city man. Start it and let us be finished with one another.” Suero faded away into the cover, taking his place among the ambushers.

Ramiro touched his breastplate for luck and set an arrow from the quiver to his curved bow. The man in white directed a woman to be dragged out and stretched along the mud in preparation for taking off her hands. A sword rose high. Anger burned and Ramiro used the emotion as fuel as he drew back the string. His intended target, the man in white, was blocked by soldiers. He didn't have a clear shot. He changed aim and released. With a hiss, the arrow embedded in the sword handler's shoulder, punching him back. The sword fell into the muck.

Shouts and screams rose from captives and Northerners alike, but Ramiro was already pulling a second arrow from the mud at his feet. It resulted in a square hit to the chest of a Northerner standing exposed like a sheep for the slaughter. Now they began moving. And it was all luck whether the entire group rushed him or they kept a guard on their prisoners.

His third arrow found a neck when he'd aimed for a back. Most of the captives had gotten to their feet. The man in white pointed at Ramiro with his stick. A group of Northerners left the prisoners and rushed in his direction, boots slipping in the mud. From the opposite side of the village, a piercing whistle sounded above all the noise: Bromisto's signal. The whistle came again, and Ramiro saw the captive children turn in that direction. Only a few men remained to constrain the prisoners. Too few.

As Ramiro plucked the last arrow from the mud, the prisoners broke, children shouting and running in the direction of the whistle they'd used all their lives in their hide-­and-­seek games. The adults were only seconds behind, dodging confused Northerners. One of the soldiers reached for a child and Ramiro let fly with his last arrow, not waiting to see where it struck the soldier.