Chapter Thirteen

Elizabeth’s challenge burned in Rafael’s thoughts for the days before the wedding. Afraid. It was an astonishing word to have associated with himself, and yet there was a resonance in her charge that hinted at truth.

Love made the king vulnerable. There was the root of the matter. A man who prized any possession, be it wife, child or holding, could have his prize stripped from him. Worse, it could be used against him. Wives were captured, children tormented, holdings stolen. Rafael had seen many a man broken by such a loss and had resolved long ago that it would not happen to him.

What would be your legacy? There was the most potent truth of it. Rafael did not want those souls in Hell to be his legacy. As ever, Elizabeth had found a way to make him reconsider his choices.

But to change his life was no small thing to expect, and it would not be readily done. What options had he? What skills? What opportunities?

The questions haunted Rafael, and he labored hard, as if to outrun them and their implications. He hunted with vigor, riding out with Amaury both days and bringing back so many carcasses that Catriona cried for relief in the kitchens. He tended wounds and polished armor, honed blades and brushed steeds. He worked until he ached to his marrow, and then he worked yet more.

He did not sleep overly well, for Franz seemed determined to keep him company at night. He cursed the fact that he had to remain at Ravensmuir until Sunday, then was heartened that he would have one last glimpse of his angel.

Rafael knew that Elizabeth was not afraid of him, not even of his anger. Indeed, when she provoked his temper, she seemed to see it as a mark of her power over him. Rafael suspected she was right in that, for never had there been a woman who could stir his responses as adeptly as she.

He was resolved to be composed and implacable on the day of the weddings, lest she take encouragement from his manner. Aye, he had to be polite and indifferent. She did not need to know that she had put him in turmoil, not until he had decided upon his course.

Rafael was tempted, sorely tempted, to give Elizabeth what she wanted of him, but he knew that could only lead them both to ruin. First, any seduction would be an insult to his host and comrade to despoil that man’s sister. Secondly, he could not wed Elizabeth honestly, not without a holding. Thirdly, even if he had possessed the ability and the inclination to wed her, Rafael knew such a match would be doomed. She believed him to be some gallant knight, and the only result of time they spent together would be her disappointment. She would end like Ursula, and of all the sins he had committed, the destruction of Elizabeth’s hope would be the worst.

That would be a rejection of all Rafael held to be good and right.

He was so concerned with the notion of his legacy that Rafael barely noticed the other change in his thinking: for the first time in all his days, he was concerned about his right to wed.

* * *

Rafael was prepared when the party came from Kinfairlie, or so he thought. He donned his best garb, black velvet and white linen, a black tabard worked with a line of gold upon the hem and a black cloak lined with shimmering gold. His boots gleamed and the gold rings on his fingers shone. He stood with his fellows as the party arrived from Kinfairlie, content to lose himself within the company. He anticipated that all of Malcolm’s family would come from Kinfairlie, prepared to be entertained and fed richly. He also anticipated that the brother Alexander would not have fully surrendered his disdain, though he would eat and drink at Malcolm’s board. Rafael expected that Malcolm’s trade would cast a long shadow over his family’s view of him, and his relationship with them.

But Rafael was due to be surprised.

The Laird and Lady of Kinfairlie rode at the head of the procession, the coats of their black destriers gleaming in the sun. The lady was fair, like Catriona, her hair coiled up beneath her veil. A pair of squires rode before them on palfreys with the banner of Kinfairlie held high. Another noble pair rode behind them, the woman’s hair red of hue and the man swarthy. There were children aplenty, and truly Rafael did not trouble to count them. They were richly garbed and as fair as the Lady of Kinfairlie, carried by servants riding palfreys.

Elizabeth rode her mare alongside Alexander and Eleanor, and Rafael again was proud to note how well she rode. She made it look effortless to manage the very large mare, but Rafael knew Demoiselle was not such a complacent mount as that. The three black steeds were each as wondrous as the next, their trappings black and silver, their necks arched and manes braided. To see them together was a marvel. Truly, Rafael had never seen their ilk, and he acknowledged that the tales of the steeds of Ravensmuir were based in fact.

Elizabeth herself was dressed in green and silver, the hue of her kirtle making her eyes shine like emeralds. Her gaze leaped immediately to him, lingering in a way that revealed he had not disappeared into the company as readily as he had hoped, but Rafael determinedly turned his attention to the rest of the party.

His heart skipped, though, his awareness of Elizabeth as keen as ever. He would never forget her, that was for certain. He wondered then if the knotted ribbons between them were a cruel jest of the King of the Dead, a ploy to see her destroyed in this realm for daring to speak aloud in his court. Elizabeth, of course, would believe the ribbons to be a reliable sign of the course she should take, and it was clear she would heed no warnings. What if the dark king wished only to see her ruined, so that she had no choice but to choose to enter his realm forever?

The notion made a fearsome sense. If these beings were djinn, such trickery was most characteristic.

And if these beings were djinn, not demons, then Ravensmuir was no portal to Hell. Indeed, Hell might not truly exist. He could return to his conviction that he would never be judged, that there was only life and oblivion and naught in between save the smoky illusion of the djinns.

Save for the companionship of Franz. That could have been a gift from the dark king, an illusion sent to trouble him. Rafael realized he wanted to see that dark-bearded king defeated more than he had desired anything in a long time.

Nigh as much as he desired Elizabeth. He could not possess her himself, not for any duration at least, but perhaps he could thwart the dark king’s scheme to claim her.

It would be worth a try.

The arriving party seemed numerous indeed, and Rafael had a moment to think that they would eat Malcolm’s larder bare. But then, behind all the relations and servants and children came wagons of meat, bread and ale. Alexander offered all to Malcolm with grace, and Rafael was astonished.

His lady wife, Eleanor, had brought seed for Ravensmuir’s fields, which lay fallow, so that the keep could be well provisioned for the winter ahead. Rafael was stunned by the generosity of this wedding gift.

Indeed, he had never known people to aid each other like this, to offer practical gifts of considerable expense simply to be of assistance. Rafael was awed by their generosity, so awed that he did not see Elizabeth bring her mare to his side.

“You look surprised,” she said, a laugh in her voice. “I confess I would never have imagined it possible for you to be so.”

Rafael glanced up at her dancing eyes and could not hide his amazement. He gestured to the wagons, fairly groaning beneath the weight of provisions brought from Kinfairlie. “Such generosity,” he murmured. “I thought your brother disapproved of Malcolm.”

“And so he does, but he would have Malcolm remain and restore Ravensmuir. The task will not be readily done.” Her chin set with a resolve Rafael began to associate with her. “We are kin, Rafael, and there is no bond stronger than blood. We disagree and disapprove, but always we are family, and always we defend and aid each other.”

Rafael let his gaze rove over the provisions again, feeling the lack in his own life. He had no kin. He had no family. There was no one upon whom he could rely. He had comrades, to be sure, but if they were better compensated to betray him, most would do so. He had accepted that truth long ago and knew that he could rely solely upon himself.

But Malcolm had gained more than a keep, a wife and a son. He had returned to family, where he would never be alone again.

For the first time, Rafael felt envy for his former comrade.

He realized Elizabeth was watching him closely. She leaned down from the saddle to whisper to him, her eyes bright. “Is there no one upon whom you can rely?” Her question was gentle, as if she felt compassion for him, and Rafael bristled.

“I have need of no one at my back,” he insisted, knowing that while it might be true in this moment, that might not be the case forever.

“But do you not feel the lack of a family?”

“A man cannot miss what he has never known.”

Elizabeth bit her lip and eyed him for a moment, an unexpected compassion in her clear gaze. She straightened then at the sound of hoof beats. Her features lit and she pointed across the moor. “Look!” she whispered, awe in her voice.

Rafael looked and was awed in his turn. Alexander had turned back and pointed to the road between the two sister estates. Rafael saw the dust rising on the road and guessed what gift Alexander brought.

The legendary steeds of Ravensmuir, the great black destriers that had been bred at this estate for generations, were returning to the stables where they belonged.

There had been a time when Rafael had believed these horses must be a fable, for their repute seemed too great. And Malcolm, when they had met, had ridden a good steed but not a spectacular one. When he had learned of Malcolm’s origins, he had taken this of confirmation that the Ravensmuir horses were not so wondrous as was oft told.

But on their arrival at Ravensmuir, Malcolm had confessed that he could not have risked one of his family’s horses in war. Now, as Rafael watched the great hooves of the returning herd pound the road, he understood why. Their manes and tails were braided and they had been brushed until they were glossy. They arched their necks, even as they ran, such joy and confidence in their stride that no man who ever admired a horse could have averted his gaze.

Indeed, he had never seen a sight so magnificent. Rafael took a step forward in his admiration and heard the curse fall from his lips. “Zounds!” He barely recognized his own voice, so filled was it with marvel. He was glad to still be at Ravensmuir, glad he had lingered the extra days, glad he had the chance to see these creatures with his own eyes.

Elizabeth laughed beside him. Her mare was small compared to these stallions, and as they tossed their heads, nostrils flaring and dark eyes flashing, Rafael recognized that the mare had not their temper either. The mare stamped, restless to run as well, but Elizabeth held her in place. It was one thing to see Alexander’s fine mount, but quite another to see dozens of these beasts racing toward Ravensmuir.

They were ridden by ostlers and squires, young men who laughed with such delight as they brought the horses to a milling halt that Rafael guessed they seldom had ridden their charges at full gallop. They halted before Ravensmuir’s gates, the horses snorting and stamping in their impatience to run yet more, their harness gleaming in the sun.

Malcolm was clearly close to being overwhelmed with emotion by the sight of them, and he walked through the herd, touching one and then another, stroking a nose and patting a rump. Rafael realized that he would know many of these individual steeds, for he had been gone six or seven years. By the way he was bitten and nudged, they recalled him as well. It was a joyous reunion and a noisy one, and to Rafael’s relief, there was much to be done in seeing the steeds settled in the stables again.

That Malcolm had such wealth to his hand was wondrous.

His comrade’s future at Ravensmuir was secured.

But that was not all the joy that would come to Malcolm on this day. But moments later, Rafael saw wonder light his comrade’s features as the cries of birds filled the air.

Malcolm turned and raised his hands as ravens soared out of the blue sky. They might have been conjured from the very air, so suddenly did they appear. They circled the new tower of Ravensmuir, as if to inspect it, then settled on the roof, so unruffled that they might always have been there.

One swooped low over Malcolm and gave a cry that made that man laugh aloud.

“It is a sign,” Elizabeth said, her eyes bright with unshed tears. She looked radiant in her pleasure, and once again, Rafael thought of angels touching down to earth. He could have watched her all the day and night.

“How so?”

“The presence of the ravens is believed to be an endorsement of the Laird of Ravensmuir,” she confessed. “Malcolm left when the ravens abandoned the holding, for he felt they had judged him and found him lacking.”

It was such a whimsical notion that Rafael did not know what to say.

Though he knew what it was to feel that one’s efforts had fallen short.

“But now they are returned, and the horses are back, and all will be well,” she concluded.

“I apologize that I thought ill of Alexander’s intent,” Rafael said formally, for he had misjudged the man.

“I am not.” Elizabeth laughed again at his glance of surprise. “Why else do you think the steeds returned?” Her eyes sparkled with such vigor that Rafael could not avert his gaze. She leaned toward him as if they had conspired together and laughed so that he was tempted to join her. “We contrived this together.”

“How can this be?”

“I told Alexander that you wondered at his intent, and he was so insulted that he called for the horses to be prepared to journey on this day.” She was so merry that Rafael was transfixed. “It is your doing, Rafael, that they are here, and I hope you are glad of what you have wrought.”

It was enticing to imagine as much, but Rafael did not fully believe any credit was his.

“I say it is your doing,” he retorted, unable to keep himself from smiling at her. “And I thank you, for I am glad to have seen their splendor with my own eyes.”

“It is what we have in common,” Elizabeth confided, her words startling Rafael. “I would see all the marvels of the world and seek both adventure and passion. I would stand witness to all the fables made truth, to all the riches and all the poverty, just to know that it exists.” A knowing glint lit her eyes. “For truly, what merit is a life lived sheltered? I fear such a life would feel longer than it was and I for one have no desire to endure it.” She wrinkled her nose. “I would rather have a palace of memories when I die than a perfected embroidery stitch.” Her smile turned wicked then, the sight making his heart clench, then she walked the horse away from him, her head held eye.

She was clearly confident that she had snared his attention, and Rafael, even knowing as much, could not keep from watching her go.

What could he give her in return for the gift of understanding she granted to him? Not what she asked of him, for that would be ignoble, but there had to be some other gift that would demonstrate his esteem.

Something she would remember, even treasure, after he was gone.

Rafael bit back a smile, for he had an inkling what that perfect gift might be. It was one he would enjoy delivering, to be certain, and one that would shape Elizabeth’s expectations for the rest of her days and nights.

* * *

That conversation was a fine beginning to Elizabeth’s view. She liked when Rafael eyed her with such intensity, and she liked even better when he slowly smiled, as if he might devour her in one bite.

Nay, he would make a feast of it, ensuring that she knew she was being claimed. Elizabeth shivered in delight at the notion. She liked how his gaze burned into hers, how he was becoming less mysterious to her with every exchange, how his very presence made her heart skip and all seem bright around her. She felt so vital with him that she had no doubt of her choice.

This would be the night. She had only to contrive their meeting.

The wedding vows were exchanged and the mass celebrated, the midday meal served with ceremony and the wine from Kinfairlie consumed. It was a fine day and the company was reluctant to leave the board and the camaraderie to be found there. Elizabeth was glad to see Malcolm so pleased. There was a lull in the conversation, a moment when some soul would call for a tale, and Elizabeth seized the moment to draw Rafael’s eye back to herself.

She rose to her feet and raised her voice. “Rafael Rodriguez, when last we sat at this board, we heard the Song of Roland, and you declared Charlemagne to be no hero as you knew heroes to be. Would you tell us of a hero you admire?”

The men broke into applause at this notion. In this, Elizabeth knew she would discern more of Rafael’s truth, for whatsoever a man admired revealed his secret heart.

As she had expected, Rafael took his time before he replied. He finished his cup of wine, then swept to his feet and bowed to her. “I am no teller of tales, nor am I a troubadour, but I cannot deny a lady her request.”

“You told a fine tale the other day,” Elizabeth reminded him.

Rafael’s smile flashed, making him look dangerous and unpredictable. “Perhaps I was inspired by the curiosity of a beautiful maiden,” he said.

The company cheered again and Rafael strolled down the length of the hall to halt before her. He was so handsome and virile, his gaze so steady upon her, that once again Elizabeth’s toes curled in her slippers. He offered his hand and she placed hers within it, feeling almost dizzy when he kissed the back of her fingers.

Then he spun to face the company, his short cloak flaring out around him, his steps measured. He pivoted to face her and smiled at her so that her heart fluttered. “In Spain, my lady Elizabeth, we tell of the greatest hero of all, one Rodrigo Diaz de Vívar.”

“Rodrigo Diaz de Vívar,” Elizabeth whispered, finding the words exotic on her tongue.

“El Cid!” roared one of the mercenaries and a group of them thumped their fists on the board in approval. Elizabeth glanced to the Sable League in confusion for she did not know this tale.

Rafael inclined his head to them. “Mío Cid,” he corrected. “Il Campeador.”

“What does that mean?” Elizabeth asked after she repeated both phrases.

Rafael smiled. “They say he was called Mío Cid, by the Moors, for they so admired his skills at making war that even in defeat, they acknowledged his valor. There were Moors also serving in his armies for the same reason. Sidi is their word for champion, but all the men of Castile I have ever known have called him Mío Cid, my lord or champion, a variant of the Moorish. Il Campeador is the Castilian for the champion, and is the title used by troubadours.” He lifted a brow and Elizabeth nodded that she understood, impatient for him to continue.

“I like tales of champions,” she said with a smile. “Particularly of those men who have chosen to be champions.”

Rafael inclined his head, then paced in front of the high table. His voice was rich and carried over the hall easily. “Rodrigo was born in Vívar, a town near Burgos, in the years when the Moors held much of the southern lands known as Andalusia. He was raised in the court of the Castilian king, Ferdinand I, and later in the court of Ferdinand’s son, Sancho. It was there he learned to treat women with dignity and honor, regardless of their status, and all his life, he cleaved to that principle.”

Elizabeth counted one trait that Rafael shared with his hero, for he had been most gracious to her.

“In those days, the land was divided and the lords at war. There were Christian kingdoms in Iberia, mighty Castile as well as neighboring Léon and Galicia. All were unified under the hand of Ferdinand I, but upon his death, his territories were divided between his three sons, as was oft the practice. Sancho ascended to the throne of Castile; Alfonso was granted the throne of Léon and Garcia was given the crown of Galicia. From that moment, each brother was consumed with the desire to claim what had been granted to his brethren, and to unify his father’s kingdom, but under his own hand. At the same time, these kings also made war against the cities held by the Moors, hoping to conquer again the territories and claim the wealth rumored to be within their walls, for war has need of coin to see it funded.”

This, Elizabeth realized, was where Rafael had learned that aristocratic brothers did not assist each other. Perhaps he had expected Alexander to besiege Ravensmuir and claim the new keep for his own, as well as keep the horses at Kinfairlie. She was glad his assumption had been challenged.

“Rodrigo knew that his future would be one of war, and he strove to become the best warrior of his comrades. He was made royal standard-bearer for Sancho on that king’s ascent to the throne, but soon Rodrigo showed his military prowess. He led so many campaigns against the other two kings and their forces and was victorious so often that he became famous for his success. His victories made Sancho more powerful and Castile ever larger, so Rodrigo was well-rewarded for his triumphs. He had riches and homes, servants and more horses than a man could ever ride. He rose ever higher in the ranks of Sancho’s army, serving the king at court with his own hand when he was not at war. And so it was in Sancho’s court that he met the woman who captured his heart. It is said that when Rodrigo saw Doña Ximena for the first time, he was struck with a love that would burn through all his days and nights.”

Rafael clenched his fist and pounded his chest in a gesture that thrilled Elizabeth. “No other woman would suffice. No other woman could command his love. Because Rodrigo had every advantage to his hand, even though he was not so nobly born as she, her father consented that she should wed this knight. They were wedded, and her family was convinced that her future could not be better assured. Of course, it was not.”

Rafael paused to clear his throat. The hall was rapt. One of the mercenaries passed him a cup of wine and he sipped of it before continuing. “King Sancho died young, suddenly and without a son. And so it was that the kingdom of Castile was bequeathed to Sancho’s brother, King Alfonso of Léon, the very king whom Rodrigo had defeated so soundly so many times. Alfonso did not take kindly to having the man who had conquered his armies so often within his own court. And so it was that Alfonso exiled Mío Cid forever from the unified kingdom of Castile and Léon.”

Elizabeth gasped at this, but Rafael slanted her a simmering glance. She had no time to draw a conclusion from this before Rafael presented one to her. “And here we see that a man can fight with valor and serve his lord with honor, yet be cheated of all he would hold dear. His wealth was seized by the new king, the portal of his own house locked against him, and no one would speak to him in his home. His wife and daughters even had been sent to a monastery by the king, so he was denied the sight of his beloved as well.”

And this was how Rafael came to believe that fortune was fleeting. Elizabeth locked her hands together in her lap.

“Mío Cid was not one to admit defeat, however. He had a week of grace to leave Burgos, the city where kings kept the high court of Castile, and he used every moment of it. He could have disappeared into the hills and lived like a brigand, but it was not within him to retreat from a battle. Instead, Mío Cid resolved that he would make himself a kingdom, where his fate could not be turned by one man’s whim or another, where his beloved wife and his daughters could be safe forevermore. He would earn a fortune to ensure his daughters had fine dowries, and he would see them wedded to men of honor and valor. And to do this, he would leave Castile and his wife behind, in order to build the future he desired for his own.”

Elizabeth recognized that Rodrigo had sold his blade to see to the security of those reliant upon him. That was a noble objective, and she wondered if Rafael had a similarly noble goal.

Rafael spoke with ferocity as he eyed Alexander. “Rodrigo became a mercenary and an outlaw by choice, because the alternative made his heart bleed. He had a wife and two daughters. He would not see them abandoned, impoverished or despoiled. He would not see them trapped under the thumb of a king who despised their father.” Alexander nodded in understanding of this inclination, though Elizabeth could see her brother still did not approve.

“And so, Mío Cid summoned the men who had served him. And he raised his voice before them, pledging that he would share with them whatever riches they gained, that he would see them treated with dignity, that he would request their blades be sworn to his service. He offered them the choice to follow him or nay. And so it was that the entire town of Burgos rang with the chorus of their agreement, and King Alfonso in his palace wondered at the noise. The king was said to have come to the window in time to see the finest flower of chivalry ride through the gates of the town, the best of his army leaving his service to follow Mío Cid.”

The mercenaries grinned at this, nodding approval of the men’s choice to follow such a leader.

“Mío Cid camped across the river from Burgos for three days and three nights, calling for men to join him. He sent out runners to all of Castile and Léon, extending his offer to all valiant warriors. Knights rode to his banner, his camp swelling a little more each day. Townspeople crept out at night to bring provisions to the camp, for all the town believed that the greatest warrior of all had been disserved but they were afraid to defy the king in daylight. Two hundred knights were pledged to Rodrigo before even he left Burgos. On the morning of the fourth day, the hills echoed with the thunder of hoof beats as Mío Cid’s army rode away from Burgos and toward the border of Castile. He went first to the monastery where his wife and daughters were staying, and told Doña Ximena of his plan. She wept that they would be so parted, but took him and his men to the chapel to pray for their success. He left all his coin with his lady wife, that she would have riches whatever his fate. When he left, she stood proudly to watch him go, tears running down her lovely face, and the pain of parting for Mío Cid was like that of having his nails pulled from fingers. Three hundred knights followed him, even knowing that, for they knew he would share whatever spoils they gained.”

There it was again, the notion that a woman’s love could be the anchor to a warrior’s life, and the conviction that a wife should be both honored and defended. Elizabeth smiled with her surety that Rafael would treat her well.

“They took Casteion immediately, for the townspeople surrendered to Mío Cid rather than battle against the famous warrior. Here he gained three thousand marks in tribute, plus herds to feed his army. He freed the Moors in that town, for he did not wish them to speak ill of him, dispersed the coin to his knights, and rode on. So it was at Alcocer and other towns, so it was that he rode from victory to victory, his wealth ever growing, his grace undiminished, his generosity well-known. The Moors he freed often joined his forces, those men who had joined him as foot soldiers rose to become knights in their own right, all sworn to his hand saw their fortunes increase. Mío Cid regained all he had lost and more, and better, this time no man could take it from him.”

Rafael wagged a finger at the company. “And here he showed his mettle, for he was not a man to keep all riches for himself, or to forget alliances. Still he believed himself to be the vassal of King Alfonso, for that man was king of Castile. He sent tribute to that king, fine warhorses and gifts of gold and treasure, and Alfonso marveled at this.” Rafael raised his brows. “He accepted the gifts, but did not relinquish his edict against Mío Cid.”

Rafael paused, no doubt to emphasize the faithlessness of this king. Elizabeth could only agree.

“So Mío Cid continued for three years, taking Xerica, Onda, Almenar, Murviedro, Cebola, Peña Cadiella…so many cities that I cannot recall all of their names. Always he sent tribute to Alfonso of Castile, the king he still considered to be his liege lord, but gained no reprieve from that king. And so it was that Mío Cid came to the city of Valencia, with ten thousand knights sworn to his service, and laid siege to that town of marvels and riches.”

“Have you been there?” Elizabeth asked.

Rafael nodded, prompting her desire to see the city herself. “Of course. It is as beauteous as it is reputed to be. It was built first by the Romans, called Valentia in honor of valor of the soldiers who first claimed that territory. The Moors call it Medina bu-Tarab, which means City of Joy.” His lips tightened even as Elizabeth tried the exotic name on her tongue. “Though it was no place of joy for me.”

She blinked, but Rafael had spun away. He paced the floor, as the company waited, and continued tersely. “It was a siege, as a siege always will be, the roads secured so well that naught went in and naught went out. They lacked grain in the city, and had no bread, though there was wine and fruit to be sure. It was believed that the King of the Moors in Morocco would send aid, but he did not. He heard the cries of his brethren, there was no doubt of that for messengers did escape, but so fearful was he of Mío Cid, that he did not reply.” Rafael examined the toe of his boot. “During war is when the true measure of a man can be seen, as well as the strength of any alliance.”

Again, Elizabeth saw how Rafael had gained his expectation that others could not be trusted or relied upon. How lonely his life must have been! No wonder he was so wary of making bonds with others.

“The city fell to Mío Cid, and surely the inhabitants feared he would be vengeful as a reward for their defiance. But Rodrigo was a fair man to his dying day. His goal had been to have a kingdom of his own, and in Valencia, he established one. Again, he freed the Moors who had surrendered with the town. He dispensed the spoils amongst his knights and granted coin even to the Moors, for he did not wish them to starve. He bade them choose, whether to remain or to leave, for he would rule Valencia from that day forward. He elevated a priest to be bishop of Valencia, so that all could receive the sacraments, and converted nine mosques to churches.”

This was Rafael’s notion of responsible leadership. Elizabeth approved heartily of it.

“Valencia was attacked soon afterward, by the King of Seville, but even though that king rode with thirty thousand warriors, he was defeated, and his coin swelled the treasury of Mío Cid’s new kingdom. He sent for his beloved wife and his daughters, and they arrived in triumph, Doña Ximena joyously embracing her beloved husband and champion before the entire town. In Valentia he made his home and defended it from all who would steal or taint it. From Valentia, he saw his daughters well-wed with fine dowries, to men who would honor them well. In Valentia, he ruled until he died and he died in its defense, leaving Doña Ximena to rule in his stead.”

Rafael turned to face the high table, his stance proud. Elizabeth’s heart pounded. Here was a fine example of marriage, in her view, for Rafael’s hero had treated his wife as his equal partner and Rafael saw this to be good.

This warrior would suit her well as spouse, indeed.

“And this is a hero to hold high, in my estimation,” Rafael concluded in a ringing voice. “He was a man both lethal in war and fair to those he vanquished, a fearless man who made his life as he would have it be.”

Elizabeth did not miss the quick piercing glance Rafael sent her way as he said the word “fearless.”

She stood up, undaunted by his stern manner. “He was a man loyal to those he held within his heart,” she said and saw Rafael start. “A man who treated women with honor and a man who labored as a mercenary only after Dame Fortune turned against him.” She saw Rafael’s surprise at what she had taken of this tale. “He was a man who treated his wife as his partner and confidante, a man who kept his word, and a man who was kind to those beneath his hand who had less advantage.” She lifted her cup. “I salute your champion, Mío Cid, and you for the telling of his tale, Rafael Rodriguez.”

The company roared agreement and lifted their cups to drink Elizabeth’s toast. Alexander passed a hand over his brow, but Elizabeth had eyes only for Rafael.

A heat lit in his eyes then, a fire that made her heart pound. He drank her toast, then strode down the length of the hall toward her to bow low in front of her. Elizabeth offered her hand boldly and Rafael claimed it, his warm fingers closing over her own. His eyes gleamed, his smile made her heart thunder, then he kissed the back of her hand slowly.

That dangerous smile lifted the corner of his mouth, and his gaze locked so firmly upon her that Elizabeth was certain her dream would come true.