“San Martin, help me.” Ramiro clutched the medallion at his neck. His breath rushed through a throat grown too tight. Quicksand. And his brother—his friends—bleeding out into the ground. Hurry. Bandages. Tourniquets.
He looked around, but nothing moved. The horses had gone, taking all the supplies.
Even with the needed material, saving them would consign Teresa to the quicksand. Buried alive. His legs refused to move in either direction. His brother. Teresa. Saints . . . what to do first? He was only one person.
“Bromisto!” he called wildly.
Not a sound answered. The boy probably wouldn’t stop running until he reached his village. Ramiro couldn’t blame him. He wanted to run also. Pretend that none of this horror had occurred. How could they have let this happen?
“Cousin,” Teresa begged.
No movement came from the area where his friends had murdered each other in ignorance. The lifeless body of the witch showed she’d gotten what she deserved.
Saints. Ramiro kicked savagely at a broken branch, sending it flying.
Then he took a step.
Then another.
Away from his brother.
Tears stung behind his eyes, and he thought his heart would burst. It’s what Salvador would want.
His feet reached the reed-lined water’s edge. Valentía was trapped only three feet from the shore, just out of reach. The horse’s eyes rolled with terror, not understanding what was happening to him. The ground sucked at the stallion like a hungry mouth, taking Teresa with it. Foul water of treacherous thickness reached past her waist, lapping at her ribs.
“The reins, cousin,” he called. “Throw me the reins.” The light leather floated on the surface before trailing into the quicksand.
Teresa looked at him with eyes wide and no comprehension.
“The reins,” he ordered again, putting force into his voice. “Hurry.” This time she moved. With effort, she got her arm free of the clinging muck and drew the trailing end of the leather strap to herself. She cast it in his direction, but it coiled in a pile a foot short of him and began to sink.
Ramiro stepped into the lake and immediately the ground gave way, trying to take him down. He retreated, his glance going to his brother and the other two. Was it his imagination, or had Alvito changed position? Painful hope flared.
He stepped to a straggly blueberry bush growing by the water’s edge and heaved. Two more yanks, and the entire plant lifted from the wet soil, spilling mud from the roots. With the top half, he raked at the reins, slowly drawing them across the treacherous ground to him.
The reins in hand, he pulled. Perhaps sensing help, the stallion struggled. Valentía thrashed, his head and neck stretching. Muscles cording in his arms, Ramiro exerted a steady force backward on the reins, trying to give Valentía the leverage with which to fight.
The caballo de guerra sunk another inch and went still. Brackish water settled higher, eager as a lover, only this lover dealt death. The reins went slack, sending Ramiro stumbling off-balance. He wasn’t strong enough. He yanked again, but Valentía didn’t respond. The horse knew it wouldn’t work. Ramiro collapsed to his ass on the boggy ground. A mosquito whined in his ear as if laughing at his failure.
“Cousin,” Teresa called. Tears ran down her round cheeks. “It’s all right. You did what you could. Do not blame yourself.”
“A rope. If I had some rope, I could anchor back to a tree and have more leverage.”
“There is no rope,” Teresa said reasonably. “Nor any trees close. See to your brother. The others. Just . . . just keep talking to me. I don’t want to die alone.”
“No.” Ramiro clambered to his feet and seized the reins anew. “I’m not giving up. You can’t either.” He pulled, and once more Valentía thrashed, lifting a little in the water, gaining ground toward shore. Ramiro heaved like a madman, the reins cutting bloody streaks into his hands. He screamed for added strength as the soggy ground gave him no support, sending him sliding toward the quicksand. Before he could lose all ground, he managed to anchor his feet against a skull-sized rock to stop his slide. A burn settled into his muscles, slowly growing, but Valentía made no more progress. The thick liquid neared Teresa’s shoulders. Valentía had his neck stretched to keep nose above water.
Ramiro pushed down on the gibbering panic that threatened to unnerve him only to have the fear grow stronger. Too long. It was taking too long. He risked a glance toward Salvador but could see nothing but the covering foliage of the bushes.
It wasn’t going to work. He hadn’t the strength to pull a horse free. Teresa had given him permission to quit. She kept her face turned from his, making it easier for him. Then he could help Salvador. No. Think! Find a way.
“Teresa, get the bridle off Valentía. Tie it around yourself.” He might lose the horse, but he could at least pull her free.
She flailed at the horse’s head, one-handed, the quicksand reluctant to let any part of her escape. He saw instantly it was a losing battle as she couldn’t brace herself higher and reach the leather.
“Both hands! Take off your sling!”
She fumbled at the knot around her neck. So slowly. Too slowly. Ramiro loosened his grip on the taut reins long enough to set two fingers in his mouth and blow a sharp whistle.
“Hurry,” he urged to Teresa, but the woman hadn’t undone the sling yet. By the time she worked the knot loose, something pushed Ramiro in the back and a wide nose was thrust under his arm, a broad forehead butting against his shoulder.
“Sancha.” Ramiro’s knees almost gave way. She’d heard his whistle. He spun, coaxing her closer and getting the reins over her saddle horn, looping them three times. In no time, he had a rope from his saddle to Valentía and tied off. “Hi-ya,” he shouted. She took the strain, pulling as if she understood the dire nature of their struggle.
The already-stretched lifeline of reins and rope grew still tighter. But Salvador’s leatherwork would be solid throughout; he would never allow a weak spot in his equipment. It was not the reins that would fail.
“Saints,” Ramiro said through gritted teeth. Sancha struggled forward two paces.
Valentía sensed the new strength and added his efforts to theirs, lashing out with rear legs, drawing ever so much closer to shore. The quicksand shrank back to Teresa’s waist. Her thighs. Its lover’s touch was weakening . . .
And then Valentía’s hooves found purchase. With a great sucking belch, he came free. Teresa slithered off his neck to collapse on the firm ground, sobbing her relief.
Weak-limbed, Ramiro clung to Sancha with bleeding hands and gasped like a stranded fish. His heart thumped as if he’d run twenty miles. The world spun. He squeezed Sancha and buried his face in her coarse hair until things slowed, then he lurched on drunken feet toward his brother.
Salvador lay where Ramiro had last seen him, next to the witch’s twisted and broken body. His hand still clenched his sword. Curled on his side, two spots of gore stained his chest. One rested over the heart where a breastplate would have given protection. Salvador hadn’t stirred, but Alvito had crawled to Gomez and pressed cloth to the ghastly wound at the other’s midsection.
“No.” Ramiro dropped to his knees next to his brother and fumbled for a pulse. Nothing. He tried again and again, touching neck then wrist.
“He’s gone.” Blood ran unheeded from the corner of Alvito’s mouth into his immaculate beard.
Ramiro stiffened. Alvito faced a wound to the lungs at the very least. “He’s not . . . the saints . . . they wouldn’t . . . he’s not . . . dead . . .”
Hands touched him as Teresa knelt beside him. Muck dripped from her clothing and skin. She turned Salvador, revealing his wounds to the sunshine. His brother’s eyes were glazed and sightless. The expression she sent him showed pity, remorse, as she pressed Salvador’s eyes closed. “I’m sorry.”
“No,” he continued to say, but Teresa stood and hurried to Alvito. Her drawn face grew still paler, and one look under the cloth covering Gomez, and she began to retch, gagging into the weeds. His eyes closed tight, Gomez remained mercifully unaware.
“Find my Constanza,” Alvito said, coughing blood. “The medical supplies are on her.”
Ramiro couldn’t get his legs to respond because none of this was real; he dreamed. He must be stuck in some horrible, unending nightmare. Teresa wandered uncertainly, peering behind bushes as if the caballo de guerra could be playing a child’s hiding game with them.
A huff of air hit the back of Ramiro’s neck, and Valentía lowered his head to nudge his master. The stallion lipped at Salvador’s clothing and stamped a hoof demanding his brother pay attention. Valentía brushed at his brother’s hand again before turning limpid eyes in Ramiro’s direction as if demanding reassurance.
A crushing weight descended on Ramiro’s chest. He couldn’t breathe. Salvador would never ignore his horse. Never. And that drove the truth of it home: By the saints, Salvador was dead. Humming rose in his ears, and the world grew dark.
“No. No. No!” The word grew into a scream that left the swamp ringing with its echoes. Sobs tore at him. He doubled over, searching for something to strike out at, but found nothing but bare ground. He seized at it, and chunks of mud flew. Valentía shied back from his rage.
If only he’d been faster. Done more. Gone to Salvador first.
“Ramiro! Cousin! I need you!”
He turned his back from Teresa, so she wouldn’t see, fighting for control. His hands shook. A man didn’t disgrace himself before others. He clutched at his medallion, desperate to pull it together.
Duty. Duty dragged at him.
Ramiro fought off the darkness and raised his head, swiping at the shaming wetness on his cheeks, pushing all the emotion deep inside. He wanted to scream again, to rage, but he packed it all away, trying to fill the empty ache in his chest that only grew by the moment.
By some miracle, Teresa had found Alvito’s mare, but Constanza wouldn’t let her approach. Pawing and rearing, she backed from the woman’s outstretched hands.
The strength to stand and leave his brother took an eternity. It bruised worse than the thump of a thousand practice swords pounding his body. Cut deeper into his soul than his most heartfelt prayer.
His feet stumbled over ground blurred by eyes that wouldn’t obey his order to return to normal. “Something in my eye,” he said, gruffly, dabbing at them.
“Oh, cousin.” Sorrow split her face.
He avoided Teresa’s offered hug and moved her aside to catch the reins to Alvito’s mare, leading the caballo de guerra to her master. Ramiro knew he wouldn’t be able to ride him, but every stable boy of the peloton had to know how to handle another’s warhorse. Only standing beside Alvito did Constanza settle, for the same reason Valentía continued to stand beside Salvador.
“Loyal until death and beyond,” Ramiro whispered.
“Eh, cousin?
Teresa hesitated to touch the mare and unload the supplies they needed, so Ramiro did it for her. Alvito had lapsed into unconsciousness, but his chest rose and fell in ragged, bubbling breaths. “The caballos de guerra will accept no touch but their bonded master,” Ramiro said.
“But I rode—”
“Because Salvador told Valentía to allow you.”
Teresa stopped short holding a bandage. “The horse understood him?” She shook herself and knelt by Alvito. “Hold this here. Hi-ya,” she panted in frustration. “If only I had some knowledge of what I’m doing. I’m not a healer.”
While Teresa peeled away obstructive clothing to inspect another wound in the chest, Ramiro stooped to press a cloth against the oozing gash in Alvito’s side, concentrating on his words and actions to block out any other thoughts. “Stop the bleeding. Keep the wounds clean.”
“That’s the limit of my information, too,” Teresa confessed. “Maybe I could set a bone. But I don’t know how to handle this!”
Ramiro took a deeper examination of his friends. The giant form of Gomez had a shrunken look like a child’s bladder balloon that lost air. Alvito had packed the intestines back in the wound, but it needed stitching, and only Alvito had the skill for the task. The saints knew the depth of the internal injuries or how they should be treated. How to clean it? Whether to give substance and water or withhold them? What medicine would help?
Alvito’s already-pale skin had gone ghostly from blood loss though little enough leaked to the outside of his body. The liquid gurgle to his breathing told the story of where it had gone, and Ramiro knew not how to get it out or stop further bleeding.
Teresa used a bandage soaked in alcohol to sponge off Alvito’s chest, dribbling the liquid inside the lung wound. With a screech of pain, Alvito jerked from their hands, only to settle again as if he was too weak to evade them. She held out a water bottle, but Alvito batted it away and instead clamped onto Ramiro’s arm.
“The witch,” Alvito demanded in a wheeze. Fresh blood ran into his groomed beard.
“Dead.”
“The girl. The nit?” Alvito asked.
“I don’t know. Alive, I think.”
“You must get her home. Get her to our people.”
Ramiro shook his head. “I must take care of you—of Gomez—first.”
Ramiro had to lean close to hear the fading reply. Alvito’s eyes met his with force and utter conviction. “Too late. For us. Get nit. Colina Hermosa. Order.”
It was starting to dawn on Ramiro just how terrible a thing duty could be.
Father 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.