Grudging (6 page)

Teresa!

Still wearing his plumed hat, Alvito secured his knives and began rounding up the loose packhorses before they could run off like the chestnut gelding. Gomez hefted a body and headed toward the rocks, intent on removing all the evidence of their skirmish. The wound in his side stung, but Ramiro swung down from Sancha to go to Teresa. Salvador beat him there.

“Cousin?” Ramiro called, touching her short hair.

“Are you hurt?” Salvador asked.

The plump woman uncurled from the defensive ball she'd assumed. She held tight to her shoulder. Her eyes showed fright atop pain, which she struggled manfully to conceal. “Here,” she hissed, nodding down at her chest, unable to move her other arm. “Something stepped on me.” Did Ramiro imagine her cringing away from the blood on his hands?

“Collarbone,” Salvador said gruffly. “Likely broken. It'll have to be bound in a sling.”

Ramiro settled back on his heels to await instructions as Alvito rummaged in packs for cloth. Alvito came over bearing one of Gomez's extra shirts. Instead of offering the shirt to Salvador, he froze. “You're hurt, Capitán.”

A spreading stain of red darkened Salvador's surcoat below his breastplate, and Ramiro felt like he'd been stabbed himself.

 

CHAPTER 8

S
alvador's wound proved neither dangerous nor deep. A sword thrust had slipped below his armor, cutting skin and muscle near the top of his thigh. The gash stopped bleeding almost before Alvito finished sewing it back together. The cut along Ramiro's ribs bled less but required one more stitch than his brother's, leading Alvito to declare Ramiro the bigger idiot.

Teresa sat on a dried saguaro skeleton and watched the scene, her left arm in a sling to immobilize her collarbone. It didn't seem to be a clean break, but it might be deeply bruised or the muscles damaged. Nearby, Salvador nursed a teakettle and lifted roasted sausages off the same small fire of dead cacti that had been used to boil the needle and other supplies.

“Fine lot we are, by the saints,” Alvito grumbled. “Caught unaware. Three injuries in the first hours. One lost horse. A sad, sorry lot.” He tied off the fine catgut of Ramiro's last suture and broke off the thread with his teeth, then gave Ramiro a push. “The only redeeming light—­our mascot has earned his beard! That is, if he can manage to grow one instead of peach fuzz.”

Gomez held up a razor with one hand and stroked the fierce beard that ran from his face to his chest with the other. “You won't be needing this anymore. A real man lets everything grow as it will.”

“Well,” Alvito hedged, “I don't recommend losing it altogether.” He kicked over the pot of cooling water onto the fire and slipped the needle back into his pack, careful not to disturb his plumed hat, set there to be out of the dirt. “A nicely trimmed sculpt lets you look sweet to the ladies, unlike a hairy bear. I'd rather be a man than a beast.” He touched the crisp lines of his straight-­angled beard.

Gomez growled and waved his hands like claws. “Jackass, you mean. A bear has many virtues over a jackass.”

“Jackass? Nay, I think you mean cat. A cat I will allow.” Alvito directed a smile toward Teresa. “We must appeal to the woman among us. Would your sex prefer a hairy bear or a sleek cat?”

“Oh,” Teresa said, her grin bursting forth despite her injury. “How can one possibly choose? I say yes to variety. One isn't enough, eh?”

Ramiro smiled at their banter and glanced up as Salvador's hand settled on his shoulder. “Nicely earned, brother.” Before he could answer, Salvador moved off, and Ramiro wondered again what his brother concealed that kept him so quiet.

Ramiro stirred on the rock he'd chosen for a seat, spreading his hands before him. Clean now, they'd been covered with blood only a few minutes ago. His left hand trembled, the motion barely apparent, and he quickly formed it into a fist. If not for Sancha, it would have been
his
body dragged off the road and into the rocks. Salvador would be mourning him instead of praising.

The giant Northerner had not gone into their meeting expecting to die. In fact, his eyes had expressed utter confidence, right up until the moment they'd filled with horror and shock. The saints had turned the giant's fortune in an instant. They could turn Ramiro's just as fast. Or Salvador's. Or anyone's.

They don't talk about this in the tales.

Alvito walked around the fire to whisper to Salvador, but Ramiro overheard. “He's awful quiet, no? Shouldn't this be a celebration?”

Salvador gave Ramiro a glance. “Leave him be. The first time in close combat isn't easy.”

Ramiro pulled his shirt on over his head so he need hear no more. He strode to the edge of their camp and began grooming Sancha, determined to give her the thorough going-­over she'd earned. Despite the twinges from his raw wound, he rubbed and curried her with brushes until the work smoothed away all other thoughts, even lifting each hoof to scrape caked sand free with a pick. Sancha nudged him in appreciation, leaning her weight on him until he staggered and almost collapsed.

A hummingbird, all green and red, zoomed closer to inspect them, and discovering they offered no nectar, it zipped away.

Ramiro stroked Sancha's chest, then he reached upward to encircle her muzzle in his arms. “Salvador thinks I'm feeling guilty for killing,” he whispered to her. Salvador was the perfect soldier. He couldn't bear for Salvador to think less of him. “Perhaps that's what I should feel, but I'm relieved. Glad it's the Northerner and not us.”

Sancha blinked her large eyes in perfect comprehension. To her he could say anything. It was no sin for a soldier to be scared, but he had reacted in panic and not with a clear head. He'd acted out of desperate self-­preservation. There hadn't been time to recall Salvador's endless lectures of, “use your brain and not just your muscles.” He'd barely had time to react, let alone form a plan. He just wanted to survive and protect his friends and his city even if it meant taking another's life. “It's war,” he said. “We have to do what we must.”

If there was a next time, he wanted things to go differently. He would keep himself under control and use his brain. He'd do better than merely reacting. The wound across his back had settled into an ache that throbbed along with his heartbeat. He fingered the bandage.
Yes, I will not lose my head next time.

And I
'll wear all my armor.

Sancha nickered softly as if to say he'd dodged his friends long enough. Ramiro took the hint and headed back to the fire to grab a sausage before Gomez ate them all.

J
ulian stepped from the carriage and turned to wait for Beatriz as she fussed busily with the drape of her shawl, the frills and flounces of her dress, and finally with her little hairball dog. Instead of sighing, he smiled. More than twenty-­seven years of marriage had taught him patience. It had also trained him to be prepared for cold hands. Winter or high summer, the woman never got overheated though she'd often dragged him back from that state.

Somehow, the familiar touch of those chilly hands brought sense and sanity to him. Almost as if by their sheer stubborn refusal to change no matter the weather, he could hold on to his convictions. That, and they certainly helped to soothe a headache when the air was too thick to breathe, and the sun baked all else. Plus, she worried enough for three men. With Beatriz by his side, his cares were often light as a feather.

She arranged dog and attire to her taste and let him help her from the coach. Once she was out, grooms led it away to make room in the busy courtyard. Julian waved, and his bodyguards departed with it. Against the far wall, a blacksmith worked under a sheen of sweat, his hammer throwing sparks as he beat out an arrowhead. Smoke drifted from the forge and from cook fires inside the nearby barracks. Soldiers hurried on numerous errands: carrying dispatches, going to their duties, topping off lanterns with oil.

We do not give in so easily, he thought with pride.

Julian escorted Beatriz across the cobblestones to a flight of stairs. The stair would take them to the top of Colina Hermosa's wall.

Beatriz's cool hand twined around his arm. “Did you have to send both my sons on this impossible mission?” She raised her voice to be heard above the din, moving slowly on the stair, clinging and pulling.

He hugged close to the wall to allow a sergeant carrying a stack of arrows to pass. Here, Julian was the unimportant one; their work was more urgent. They reached the top of the wall, where all was orderly and quiet. Guards stood at attention in their spaces along the stone fortification. Julian gestured outward over the parapet at the Northern army. “Would you have them here,
mi amor
? Knowing that is coming for us soon. We agreed they are safer away.”

“But sending them to the witches . . .” She held the dog close to her nose and buried her face in its fur. The stifling breeze caught the lace mantilla atop her head, lifting it in a gentle wave.

“The witches are only a plausible excuse to send them in that direction,” he said. “It had to be a reasonable fabrication, or they would see right through it. Now Salvador can scout the way for the evacuees who will follow, and only he has to know about them. Besides, no one has seen the witches in decades.”

Beatriz stuck out her lower lip as if she were still a girl, and he couldn't help but smile. To Julian, she would always be the beauty he'd wed before becoming rich or being elected
alcalde
. He wrapped an arm around her. “They are doing what is important. Making sure the way to the swamps is safe.” He squeezed her shoulders. “Now and forever.”

“Now and forever,” she echoed with a sigh. “But did they truly have to go?”

“Who knows?” he said. “Perhaps this side mission will succeed. Perhaps the witches still exist, and our sons will persuade them to use their magic in our favor.”

She huffed and rolled her eyes. “By the saints, Julian. Of course the witches live. Evil doesn't die that easily. But the witches help no one. Isn't that so, Pietro?” The little dog under her arm panted happily. She looked back at Julian. “When do you go on this foolish quest to meet the barbarians and settle these terms so they can destroy us?”

Julian cast a swift glance at the enemy camps spread across the plain. One group of them marched in a square formation, while elsewhere soldiers moved more freely. The siege machines waited in silent isolation near the rear. He detected no change among the enemy though the scouts assured him the numbers had grown. “In the morning. But as we've already discussed, I go nowhere. So you can stop worrying. They are coming here, where I'll be well protected.”

Her lips thinned. She'd already given ground on that issue as she had on their sons' departure. “You'll be guarded by bodyguards, not kin. You could have kept our sons here with you or sent them with the children.”

“When the first group of children goes through the tunnels tonight, they will have
pelotón
members to protect them.
We
decided our sons would be safer elsewhere. It may be selfish, but I want them out of the city. Let's not rehash that argument. They've been gone over a day; there is no getting them back. Besides, the children are the priority now. They will go to the swamp as long as the hill tunnels remain undiscovered—­with the
pelotónes
. Hopefully, the Northerners won't find them there.”

The little dog squirmed as she hugged it tight. Beatriz's lip trembled. “I hate to see it come to this. Bad enough you meet with these . . . ­people. But the children, will they be safe? They are like our own.”

“As safe as anyone. And Salvador has his orders. Our sons will take their trek through the swamp and join the evacuees. Then the children will have more protection.” He put his hands on her arms, and looked into her eyes. “I promise,
mi amor
.”

“
Alcalde
Alvarado,” a captain who had been waiting out of earshot called. “They are ready for you.”

Julian took his wife's hand to lead her down from the wall. Below, a wagon had arrived, and with it came the first of the evacuees. Of course, a wagon couldn't fit through the tunnels, so the older children would have to walk while the smallest rode on mules. But it would be quicker to get them to the tunnels with the wagon.

Already, parents and grandparents helped small ones into the wagon. Larger children climbed in under their own power. All carried some sort of cloth sack containing provisions and extra clothing. All wore their best: skirts of brilliant red, white blouses, black pants for the boys, all without a tear or a mend. Red skin around ears or knees showed where a hasty scrubbing had been performed before arriving. Damp hair gave further proof. The scene left a nostalgic ache in Julian for his own children's time as this age.

A circle of adoring tots formed around Beatriz with eager hands reaching out to touch the fluffy hairball. “Pietro, no kissing,” Beatriz said, laughing as the tiny dog slurped faces, adding his own brand of grooming.

“Thank you,
Alcalde
,” one white-­haired grandfather said, seizing Julian's hand. “Thank you for harboring the children in the citadel, where they will be better protected.” A tiny girl with reddish streaks in her brown hair clung to the old man's leg. She squeezed a rag doll tight with her other arm, thumb in her mouth.

“It is nothing,” Julian said, shifting his feet. Telling the ­people their children went to the swamp of the witches for their own safety would go over like a dead fire on a winter morning. But it was safer for the children out of the city and hidden in the swamp—­it had to be. Thus, this deception was for everyone's benefit. It was much more easily and quietly done when the parents didn't know the truth.

“But my sister's children,” one bright-­eyed matron appealed to Beatriz. “What will happen to them?”

Beatriz gave him the look, and Julian cleared his throat. He forced a reassuring smile. “The citadel has plenty of room. All the children will be safely sheltered until this Northern threat is eliminated. More children will be brought every hour until we have them all. Santiago had a heart without limit; so, too, is our citadel without limits when it comes to the children of Colina Hermosa.”

Even as the lies left his lips, he said a silent prayer: Santa Bridig, patron of fugitives, defend them all. For surely the swamps would be kinder than the death they would find here.