SIXTEEN
Ramiro heard the goats bleating, calling out to foreign beasts that were approaching. They didn’t sound alarmed, which meant horses—which they had become accustomed to—and not predators. Ramiro retrieved his sword from the stable and ducked into the orchard to investigate who was approaching the villa. From the edge of the orchard, he spotted the six riders approaching. They were making no effort to hide themselves, and in their plain tunics and robes, they did not seem to be Moors. He saw longswords, and three carried crossbows slung across the backs of their saddles.
Christian soldiers.
Unlike the deserters from months ago, these men did not appear to be lost.
He met them at the oak, carefully putting the bulk of the tree between himself and most of the party. He made no effort to hide his face, and he noticed two of the men seemed pleased to look upon his scarred visage.
“God be with you,” one of them said, nudging his horse forward of the rest of the group. His skin was as dark as the rest, but his hair was lighter. He had been in Iberia for some time, but he was a foreigner, and he spoke with an accent that reminded Ramiro of the Latin spoken by the priests in the churches in Toledo.
“And with you as well,” Ramiro said, not unaware that they had just exchanged a variation of the Islamic greeting. “Are you lost?”
“That would imply we had a destination in mind,” the man said with a laugh. “Is there a place ahead where we might have a drink and water our horses?”
“No,” Ramiro said.
The man glanced at his companions, his gaze lingering on the stout man who sat in front of the armed escort. The stout man lifted his shoulders slightly and the foreigner slid off his horse. Ramiro let his hand fall on the hilt of his sword as he watched the man fumble with one of his saddlebags and extract a wineskin.
The man walked toward him, pulling the stopper out of the skin. He paused, a respectful distance from Ramiro, and drank from the skin. “It is good I have my own wine then,” he said, offering the skin to Ramiro.
Ramiro stared at the man, noting that while he did not have a sword, he stood in a loose stance that spoke of some experience wielding a sword. “I do not drink before noon,” he said, offering a reasonable excuse that would not be offensive.
The man squinted up at the sun. “Is it still morning?” he asked. “It feels later. This sun…” He left the sentence unfinished and took another pull at his wineskin.
“Why are you here?” Ramiro asked, not liking the easy insouciance of these strangers.
“My name is Lazare,” the one with the wineskin said. “That is Crespin and Ruy.” He pointed to the pair behind him in turn. “Hernando, Lope, and Miguel are our escorts back there.”
“That does not answer my question,” Ramiro said.
“Do you know the story of El Cid?” Lazare asked, ignoring Ramiro’s comment. “Prior to coming to Castile, I did not, and I have found it the most fascinating tale. He fought for Castile against the Moors, and then he fought for the Moors against…other Moors, I think. Maybe even against Leon. It gets confusing. And then he founded his own fiefdom, in Valencia.”
“Everyone knows the story of El Cid,” Ramiro said.
“He had a sword too,” Lazare continued, his face brightening. “It was called Tizona. No one knows what happened to it after he died. A beautiful sword, from what I hear. A most distinctive guard and hilt. Very ornate.”
“I know of no such sword,” Ramiro said. “It is nothing more than idle foolishness. The stuff of legend.”
“An interesting story, nonetheless,” Lazare said. “Like other stories that I’ve heard since coming to Iberia. The fall of Calatrava, for instance. The retaking of Calatrava. Have you heard that one?”
“I haven’t,” Ramiro lied.
“No, I don’t suppose you would have,” Lazare said, sucking on the wineskin. “Hidden away up here in the hills. I suspect you hear very little of the world.”
“And see even less,” Ramiro said. “Which is the way I like it.”
“Of course,” Lazare said. “Still, I’m sure you’ve heard the story about the monster who owned a goat? Yes? Or the one about the half dozen Moors who made the mistake of disturbing a local man in a drinking house not far from here?”
“Why are you here?” Ramiro said, the tenor of his voice making it clear that this was the final time he was going to ask the question.
“Was it really six men?” Lazare asked. “At the tavern in Almuradiel.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Ramiro said. “The stories tell a better tale.”
Lazare nodded as if that was somehow the answer he had been hoping to hear, and Ramiro found himself confounded by the man’s reaction. His confusion only increased as Lazare smiled and looked at his companions. “I think we’ve found our man,” he said.
“Aye, I think we have,” said the one named Ruy. He dismounted from his horse and walked over to Ramiro. “I am Ruy Díaz de Yanguas, master of the Order of Calatrava.”
Ramiro was shaken by the realization that he, ostensibly, owed this man his allegiance, even after all this time.
“Welcome, Master Ruy,” he said, offering his arm for the other to clasp. “I am a poor host.”
“Well,” Ruy said, laughing. “It is a good thing we are not here for your hospitality.”
Ramiro had Fernando bring out food and water from the villa, and as the horses were cared for and the men were fed, he and Lazare and Ruy wandered off to the shade of the orchard to talk.
“I remember you,” Ruy said as they walked along the rows. “I was a squire at Alarcos, serving Pedro Ruiz de Guzmán. I was among those who were released with the Lord of Vizcaya. It was because of you and the other knights who stayed behind that I sought out the order.”
“You are mistaken,” Ramiro said gruffly. “I was not at Alarcos. I am not—”
“You saved my life,” Ruy said sternly. “Do not belittle the gift you gave me.”
Ramiro shut his mouth and bowed his head. “My apologies,” he said. He gestured loosely at his face. “I am a rough beast, and my manners are as equally disturbed.”
“You know the Moors are coming,” Lazare said. “Miramamolin has more than two hundred thousand men on the other side of those mountains. There is a letter in Toledo—”
“A forgery,” Ruy interrupted.
“A forged letter,” Lazare corrected. “It claims that Miramamolin seeks to march on Rome. That he wants to do what his forefathers could not. Drive the Christians out of Iberia forever. It doesn’t matter if he wrote this boast or not; his men think it to be true. The kings of Castile and Navarre think it to be true.” Lazare paused and put his hand on the trunk of one of the apple trees. “He’s coming to La Mancha at the very least,” he said. “Two hundred thousand men will be on the plain. They will go north to Toledo. They may go east to Valencia. They make even go as far as Barcelona. Who knows? They will definitely spill over into these hills, especially once they hear stories about the Beast of Calatrava—the monster, haunted by revenge, who hunts Moors.” He dropped his hand. “It took us only a few days to find you, and there are only six of us. How long do you think it will take hundreds—thousands—of Moors to track you down?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Ramiro said. “I died a long time ago. My life is insignificant.”
Lazare ducked his head and peered down the row of trees. In the distance, a portion of the villa’s roof could be seen. “It’s not just your life that is at stake anymore though, is it?”
“What do you care?” Ramiro said, his hands shaking. “This is not your home. This is not your fight.”
“My home is far from here,” Lazare said. “That is true. I left behind people I love in order to find a way to help them in their struggle.” He shook his head. “I wanted to find a symbol that could give my people hope, and during the time I have spent among the people of Navarre and Castile, I have realized that such symbols do not lie outside the home.” He touched his chest. “They’re here.” He gestured at the tress around them. “And here.”
“What do you want from me?” Ramiro demanded.
“We want you to give them hope,” Ruy said. “The kind of inspiration no king can command from his people.”
“I am a murderer,” Ramiro said. “I slit men’s throats while they slept. I am not a symbol of hope. I cannot be redeemed by leading an army to victory.”
“You don’t have to be anything other than a man who seeks to protect his family,” Lazare said. “That is, I have come to understand, what binds all of Iberia together.”
“Family,” Ruy echoed.
“Very well,” Ramiro said after gnawing on the scar tissue inside his check for a moment. “You must do something for me first.” Ruy nodded. “There is a citadel a half-day’s ride from here. Castillo del Ferral. They threaten my family more immediately than Miramamolin.”
“If we take this citadel, then you will help us.”
“I will consider it,” Ramiro said. “But only if he comes with us.” He pointed at Lazare. “Your arguments may be convincing, but your actions speak more truly. Help me, and I will help you.”
“Okay,” Lazare said. “I suppose there is a long tradition here of monks becoming knights.”
“Aye,” Ruy laughed. “There is.”