His ninth day outside Colina Hermosa dawned, brightening the sky and rendering shapes distinct. Ramiro eyed the last feet of hill before him. His city and the Northern army should be just on the other side. He’d followed his best guess, using the darkness and the land to keep them hidden. Hopefully, his best guess was correct.
But what would he find over the hill? He feared to look.
He skirted a group of pincushion cacti growing in the shade of a tall ocotillo to return to Sancha and Claire. From atop his mare, the girl dozed, with her head resting on Sancha’s neck. He gave Sancha her usual morning attention and affection, then lifted the girl down. Instead of waking, she snuggled against his shoulder, her eyes closed. The golden glow of the sunlight gave a fragile beauty to the contours of her face, rendering her radiant. He froze, unsure what to do.
Though close to his age, Claire was unlike any of the other girls with their brazen flirting or their coy, false modesty. Naivety made her in some ways more like a child. Yet her determination and striving to prove herself showed even more strength than some members of the pelotón . . . including, he thought ruefully, himself. He frowned. Had his urge to protect her as a possible savior of his city and out of sangre kinship become something more? Did he like her for herself, forgiving the loss of Salvador? He wasn’t sure he could do that—moving past the loss of his brother—so quickly. And yet . . .
He only knew it would pain him if anything happened to her.
What was he doing? Examining his feelings like a priest? There were more important things to do.
He gave her a gentle shake, setting her feet to the ground. “Claire, wake up. We’re there.”
Her eyes flew open, and she backed away from his supporting arms as if his touch burned. “We’re here?” she asked groggily.
He nodded curtly, scratching at his beard. “I believe so. Follow me quietly and stay low. Sancha, wait for me.” They couldn’t afford the mare following and appearing above the horizon. Ramiro dropped to his knees and inched over the last few feet of rocky soil to the crest. He held tight to his breastplate and hoped it wouldn’t clank too loudly, missing the rest of his armor back in the village. Yawning, the girl copied his movements and soon lay prone beside him.
They had indeed come out on the south flank of the army near the old quarry. In more generous times, when water lay deep, foolish or drunken young men often dared each other to dive from the spot. A dare Ramiro had taken once in his life. Surviving stupidity was a gift from the Lord, but one shouldn’t overtax His generosity.
Glancing over the spreading mass of the Northern army between them and the city walls, Ramiro hoped he’d saved enough of the Lord’s gift to survive today. He let out a suppressed breath, touching mind and heart. They’d arrived in time. His city was still intact; the enemy camped just as before, only with the siege engines moved into position from rear to front.
A line of house-like wagons were parked just below them and all along the edge of the quarry, then the sprawling camp began, more sparsely inhabited here along the outskirts and thickening as it progressed inward and to the north.
“You want us to go through that?” the girl whispered with awe in her voice. She squinted against the rising sun to see where the citadel of Colina Hermosa rose on its hill, the city tapering down around it to the walls that shared the plain with the army. She inspected the camp full of black-and-yellow uniforms. “I tried to imagine it, but I didn’t even come close. It’s huge. I’ve seen termite mounds with fewer inhabitants.”
“I was hoping you could disguise us to fit in. Like when you made us appear as deer.” He hated to drag her into this. He’d rather she stay behind. But he’d never reach the city without her help. Though the odds were long he’d reach it with her help.
Claire shook her head. “All the way through that? I might be able to hold the Song long enough, but what happens when we reach the end? How do I cover us as we run to your city?”
“Get us through, and I’ll do the rest.”
She rolled onto her side to face him. “That’s crazy. We can’t take the horse. That, I can’t hide. We’ll never make it across the distance. We need a better idea. I won’t do it unless there’s a reasonable chance of succeeding.” The mulish expression he had seen often enough when she was his captive overtook her face. “Why doesn’t your city just attack and push them over that cliff?”
“I’m sure they’ll line up nice and straight and let us push them into the quarry.” He slapped down his temper when she flinched. It wasn’t the girl’s fault he had no better plan. She wasn’t the one dying to get home. “I beg your pardon for my hot words.” He sighed. “That strategy was considered, but their numbers would outflank our line, even with all our cavalry gathered. Plus, they’ve obviously prepared for it. Those wagons would give them perfect regrouping spots and act as snags against any attempt. I’m sorry I don’t have a better idea—yet.”
She resumed her vigil outward, her brow puckered in contemplation rather than anger. “Give it a few minutes. Maybe we can think of something.”
With his chin resting on his palm, he dug for inspiration and found none. Bridge the distance between city and army disguised with magic, and they’d be shot full of arrows by his countrymen—not to mention drawing the suspicion of the enemy. Drop the magic and run for it as themselves, and the Northerners would give chase. Perhaps the gate guard would come forth and attempt a rescue when he was recognized, but that was a big if. And he didn’t like abandoning Sancha though there seemed no way around that. They could hope they were mistaken for envoys as they approached the city, but how to trigger that when neither one of them knew a word of the enemy language?
He waited for the girl to make excuses, to look for a way of backing away from this situation and him. If their positions were reversed, he wasn’t so sure he would stay.
And yet she did.
Claire grabbed his arm. “Look.” She pointed toward the outskirts of the camp nearest the gate.
He shaded eyes gritty with exhaustion from the sun with his hand. A figure all in black walked, circled by enemy soldiers.
“It’s a woman,” Claire said. “I see skirts.”
Shivers ran the length of his spine. Ramiro sat up, carelessly exposing himself. “It’s my mother.”
“What?” Claire seized his arm and tugged, trying to force him down. “You couldn’t possibly tell that from here.”
His eyesight couldn’t distinguish a face or features, but his heart knew. “It’s her.” He started to turn for his bow and cursed instead. That thief Suero had it. And what good would a bow do among so many or so far?
The butchering bastards have my mother.
He scrambled to his feet only to have the girl throw herself on him, dragging him back to the ground.
“No,” she said between clenched teeth. “That will only make it worse.”
“It’s my mother,” he said, preparing to shake her off like a dog with a small cat on its back. The girl clung like a sand burr.
“You think I don’t understand,” she demanded. “But what is she doing out there? There must be a reason. Wait.”
His tense muscles loosened fractionally. He lay still and looked back at the army. His mother neared.
“See,” Claire said. “They’re coming this way.”
“We’ll lose her in the crowd,” he hissed, as they entered more populated parts of the camp.
“No, we won’t. Watch her head covering. It’s like a beacon.”
Indeed, his mother’s stubbornness in clinging to an old-fashioned, tall mantilla proved their blessing. The black lace stood inches above almost every other head.
“What is she doing here?” he asked, not expecting an answer. The small party surrounding his mother progressed deeper into the camp, still headed in their direction. It was his mother. Even with the short glimpse he’d gotten, he wasn’t mistaken. His heart and gut agreed. By the saints, why would she be with the army of his enemy? What was his father thinking?
“What if . . .” the girl dropped off whatever she’d been about to say.
“What if what?” he demanded, eyes narrowing.
“What if she’s, you know . . . working with them?”
Ramiro choked off a laugh. “My mother? A spy? That’s so ludicrous, it’s funny. If you’d ever met her, you’d know it was impossible. Besides, if she was working with them, they’d all be decked out in lace by now.”
“Just checking,” the girl said. “I trust you.”
He nodded at the small phrase. But it meant more than three words. She relied on his judgment. She’d made a choice to support him, help him in rescuing or breaking into his city, whichever was necessary. It was a relief to have her support and not to be alone. All his training had always been to be part of a group—part of the pelotón. In a way, she was his pelotón right now.
As the minutes passed, he lay coiled as tight as a clock spring. Claire was right about waiting, but that didn’t make it any easier. The girl rested a hand upon his arm, and somehow the contact helped. If anyone understood, she would.
At last, the party with his mother approached a large carpet rolled out on the sand. A table stood on the carpet with some other furniture. One of the house-like wagons blocked his view of Beatriz, but he’d seen enough.
“It’s her,” he told Claire.
A figure clad in white like the madman they’d encountered in the village came out of a wagon, and the hackles rose on his neck. She appeared to be following a priest from his city—the bulky, black-skinned man wore a priest’s robe, anyway. They headed for the carpet and Beatriz. Ramiro struggled to see more, but again his view was blocked. What happened with his mother?
Enough!
He brushed off Claire’s hand and slid back down the hill with the intention of grabbing Sancha. Before he could, a roar came from Colina Hermosa, a sound unlike anything Ramiro had ever heard. The ground shook with tiny tremors, causing pebbles to jiggle.
“By the Song!” the girl shouted, jumping to her feet.
Expecting one of their infrequent earthquakes, he hurried to join her and found that the camp below them had also turned to look at the city. Another booming, roar-like outburst shook everything. Pebbles jumped at his feet. From their vantage on the hill, Ramiro watched as a back section of the city wall broke into chunks, collapsing outward in a pile of rubble. First one . . . then two . . . then another part of the wall began a slow topple outward.
“Bloody hells!” exploded from his throat. “It’s no earthquake.” What had the Northerners done? Whole back sections of Colina Hermosa’s wall slowly disintegrated.
The camp below him boiled like a kicked anthill as people shouted in their foreign tongue, and everyone jumped to their feet or rushed from wagons. He frowned, thinking for a moment—something wasn’t right. Wouldn’t the Northerners be better prepared if they had caused the walls to fall?
“The gate! The gate!” Claire seized him so tightly and unexpectedly, he staggered and nearly took them both down.
The gates of the city yawned wide, and leagues of horsemen boiled out. Not the matching gray of the pelotón horses, but brown, and black, plow horses surging beside carriage horses. Swords extended, the whole formation dashed for the confusion of the camp. Bowmen sent flaming arrows at the siege machines. Men on foot—dressed in gate-guard uniforms or no uniform at all—tossed torches at the great wooden machines as they threw themselves onto enemies.
Half the force split away and entered the camp, plunging not through the heart but directly toward their location.
This was his father’s doing, Ramiro suddenly realized. If the ciudad-estado was going down, it would do so fighting. And another thought came just as quickly:
“Mother.”
Horses galloped, using their size to overrun men and penetrate deep into the camp. In minutes, she’d be trampled in the growing madness—caught up in the fighting. Ramiro spun and ran from the conflict, down the hill toward Sancha. A spring took him into the saddle.
Claire still stood on the crest of the hill, her face white and drawn. “Wait for me,” she cried. “Don’t leave me.”
“Catch hold,” he ordered.
Claire held out her arm, and he seized it as Sancha took him rushing past. A wrench of his muscles from shoulder to hip and a leap on her part put her up behind him. He touched his medallion and drew his sword, urging Sancha down the far side of the hill.
“For Colina Hermosa!” bellowed from his lungs, joining with hundreds of like cries below.