TWELVE
As he crested the wooded hill that hid the valley where the orchard and villa lay, he spotted Louisa wandering through the field of wild flowers along the northern edge of the pasture. He let his horse find its own way down the slope as he rested his forearms on the horn of his saddle and watched her. She was wearing a blue linen dress beneath a gray cloak, and her hair was loose, streaming down her back in a glossy black wave. Her rotund belly made it difficult for her to bend over and pick flowers, but every once in a while, she would make the effort to add another long stalk of purple flowers to the basket she carried under one arm.
As he neared the bottom of the hill, she heard the sound of his horse’s hooves against the stony ground and she looked up, shading her eyes against the glare of the midmorning sun. She recognized him and waved, and he felt a huge desire to wave in return while part of him shivered with shame for having stayed away over night. She was glad to see him; nothing else mattered.
Thus it had always been with Louisa: nothing else mattered. He wondered if he would ever truly be able to accept that truth about her. His scars did not frighten her. His past did not alarm her. She did not see any sign of the blood that had stained his hands for many years. She did not know—or even need to know—about the anger that lurked inside him. She looked at him and saw what she saw, and it was enough. Anything less was his own failure to acknowledge the innocent simplicity with which she chose to live.
Such earnestness—such purity—made him weep. Even he, who had lived for five years as an animal—constantly hunted by both Moor and Christian alike—and whose resolve was tested time and again, was not that strong.
“Ramiro,” she called, moving through the field of flowers.
He dismounted before she reached his horse, so that she would not have to look up at him. She spread her arms, embracing him awkwardly, both her belly and her basket getting in the way. He held her tightly, though, inhaling the scent of her hair and skin. “I missed you,” she whispered in his ear. It was true, and it did not matter if he had been gone an hour or a day. Her face lit up the same way.
“Hello Louisa,” he said gruffly.
“Did you go to the village?” she asked.
“Almuradiel?” He shook his head. “There were other things I had to see.”
“Like what?” she asked.
“Did Fernando tell you what happened in the village?” he asked.
She frowned slightly, her free hand dropping to her belly. Absently, she rubbed her bulge through the linen robe. “He said there was an altercation.”
“An altercation?” Ramiro raised an eyebrow.
“He said it was all a misunderstanding.”
“I apologized afterward.”
“Good,” she said simply, loosening some of the knotted lines on her forehead.
“How are Maria and Fernando?”
She considered the question briefly. “Good. She likes to tell me what to do—in my own house!—but I think she means well. Her resting hand patted her stomach. “He is strong and healthy, she says.”
“He?”
Louisa beamed. “We’re going to have a boy.”
“We are?” Ramiro could not believe what he was hearing. He reached out and grabbed the edge of his horse’s saddle to steady himself. A boy! He did not know what to think. Up until this moment, he realized he had not fully recognized what was about to happen in a few weeks. He was about to become a father, to a child who would not be able to protect itself for many years. To a small boy child, who would look up to him and emulate everything he did.
“Why are you crying?” Louisa asked.
“It’s nothing,” he said, dashing away the water leaking from his left eye.
A boy!
Then the crippling doubt swept over him, a quaking terror about the world into which his child was being born.
Fernando found him as he was brushing down the horse at the stable. Without a word, Fernando hung up the tack, fussed with the saddle where it hung across the rail of the stall, and shook out the blanket that usually lay between the saddle and the horse’s bare back. He set the saddlebags near the stable door, leaving only the sword and scabbard propped up against the wall of the stall. Only when the horse was contentedly munching on grain and Ramiro had put away the brushes and closed the stall door, did Fernando ask about Ramiro’s ride.
“How far did you go?”
“To the Despe?aperros,” Ramiro said. “There is a citadel there that watches over the road. Castillo del Ferral.”
“Christian?”
Ramiro shook his head. “Not for some time.”
“How many?”
“Enough,” Ramiro said. His lower lip curled awkwardly as he tried to smile. “But not too many.”
“Maria says the baby will come in the next few weeks.”
“Let us hope nothing happens during that time,” Ramiro said.
“If the Muslims come?” Fernando shook his head. “I am not a soldier.”
“We will not fight them,” Ramiro said, the words coming out with difficulty. “Not here. Not with…”
Fernando took a step back. His expression was a familiar one—not unlike the one worn by the Moor in Almuradiel shortly before the man died. Ramiro was not hiding his anger well. It was distorting his already-monstrous face.
The last time he had fled from battle had been Alarcos, and the retreat should have killed him.
It was not lost on him that had he died there, he would not have been a father.
Nor was he one now. Not yet.
That night, as he lay on his makeshift bed, listening to the sounds of the horses breathing and quietly moving about their stalls, he heard the stable door creak. A shadow flitted up the aisle, and one of the horses nickered softly—recognizing the mysterious visitor. He recognized her too from her distended shadow that crossed the wall at the foot of his bed. He moved his blanket back, inviting her to join him, and Louisa sat down slowly and then lay back against his chest. He flipped the blanket over her and then wrapped his arms around her ample stomach.
Beneath his hands, he felt a distant ripple of movement. Louisa laid her hands over his, guiding him down and back. Her hands settled, holding his to her belly, and he waited. It didn’t take long. He felt movement again, like a fish swimming, and then a very pronounced and distinct kick against his spread palm.
“He’s restless,” she whispered. “When the moon comes up, he turns and kicks.”
Ramiro pressed his face against the back of her head, inhaling the scent of her hair and sweat. Beneath his hand, his son kicked again. “He’s strong,” he said.
“And big,” Louisa said. “Maria tells me not to worry. She knows how to coax a boy out, but it will hurt. She doesn’t say so, but I know it will.”
Ramiro thought of the Muslim saber that had taken the tip of his nose and laid open his face. For weeks, he had lain in constant, unbearable agony. The memory burned less now, worn by time and the memory of other injuries that had been sustained more recently, but he could remember how excruciating the pain had been. How much he had wished for it all to go away. To feel nothing, ever again. “It will pass,” he whispered. “And when it is gone, you will have a son.”
“I know,” she whispered back, snuggling against his chest. “All the suffering will be worth it for this gift.”
Their son kicked again, as if in happy agreement.