Autumn, 1506
Béarn
Arnaud
“Feels like the eyes of every woodland beast are upon us,” Arnaud’s seatmate complained, looking around warily. “Roads make you a target.”
Ahead of them, dust rose from the hooves of mules plodding in a long train toward the gates at the pass of Somport, their leather panniers loaded with grain.
“I don’t like it any more than you do,” Arnaud conceded. “But we’ve no choice.” He glanced at the bow strung over the other man’s shoulder. “You’ve a blade on you, too?”
The man patted his waist. “Never been happier to carry one.”
“Let’s hope you won’t need it.” Arnaud pulled on the reins, slowing the mules to a halt, as they took their place in the line of travelers waiting to pass from Aragón to Béarn.
Icy gusts swept down from the high peaks and buffeted the black pines edging the road. Arnaud huddled in his cloak, trying to ignore the groan of the wind barreling through the tree branches. At least the sun shone overhead. He felt uneasy, trapped. They all did. None of the Ronzal villagers were accustomed to road travel—these men plied the mountains on animal tracks and shadowy trails, slipping quietly through the wilderness as it suited them.
There was no other way to haul their cargo over the mountains, though. Oak was the heaviest wood in the forest. Two carts carried the entire load, but the mules could barely pull such weight. The solution was to bring three carts with smaller loads evenly distributed among them, which had required additional men. It took much longer than Arnaud anticipated to build another cart, locate and recruit extra men, and deal with the myriad small problems of launching a new venture.
Next time, he hoped, it would all go more smoothly.
It was late in the afternoon when they reached the hawthorn tree at the narrow road that forked east toward the Abbey of Belarac.
“We might as well stay here,” Arnaud told the men. “The abbey can stable and feed our mules. We can lodge here, too. If any of you have relatives in the village outside the convent walls, you can visit with them.”
The men liked the idea. They turned the mule carts in the direction of the abbey.
When they arrived, Arnaud was pleased to see Gaston’s familiar, ruddy-cheeked face at the stable door.
“Arnaud de Luz!” the man exclaimed, removing his cap and running a meaty hand through his disheveled hair. “Never thought I’d see you again. They said you and young Mira—I mean, Madame de Luz—moved to Toulouse. How is she, your wife?”
“She’s fine,” Arnaud said heartily, though he had no idea if that were true. He swallowed, forcing down the fear constricting his throat. “Can you stable our mules for the night? And find us a clean corner where we might roll out our sleeping mats?”
“I’d be happy to. Anything for the shepherds of Ronzal.” He lumbered forward, eyeing the carts. “What is it you’re hauling?”
Arnaud swung down from the bench. His muscles were sore after days of sitting on the hard seat, absorbing the jolts of the rutted road.
“Oak,” he said.
Gaston’s mouth fell open. “Why on earth would you haul the heaviest wood in these mountains all this way?”
“Because it’s worth something to foreign merchants.”
Gaston looked dubious. Then his face brightened. “You can ride with the wool!”
“What do you mean?”
“The wool fabric is going to Toulouse, to the merchant Lord de Vernier. Some of the village men are making preparations. They asked me to ready the oxcart.”
Arnaud smiled. “The luck of that! We’ll travel with them as far as Pau.”
Gaston began unhitching the mules. He led one into the stables.
“Where’s your stableman?” Arnaud called out.
“Ran off a long time ago,” came the muffled response. “No one knows what became of him.”
Arnaud led another mule inside. He grabbed a pitchfork and began loading forkfuls of fresh hay into a stall.
“You must miss the help,” he said.
Gaston’s expression soured. “What help? The fellow was useless. Always disappearing just when I needed him.” He went outside again.
Arnaud considered Gaston’s words. When he and Mira had stayed here two summers ago, the stableman had been an odd sort, with darting eyes and an irritating habit of slinking up out of nowhere, appearing silently at one’s elbow. He had a low, sullen voice, a vacantness in his gaze.
“He was a bad seed,” Gaston went on, reappearing with another mule in tow. “I’m glad he’s gone.”
“Why’s that?” Arnaud asked.
“One time he got ahold of some wine and drank himself sick right there.” Gaston pointed at a vacant stall. “I found him mumbling and moaning. He said it wasn’t his fault, he’d done as she told him, couldn’t be helped that his blade slipped at the last minute.”
Arnaud stopped spreading hay. “She?”
Gaston scratched at his beard, tilting his head up as he retrieved the memory. “Death, he spoke of. Death had paid him in gold once for a job well done, he told me. But now he’d botched another job, one she’d promised him double the gold for. So he got no gold, just a beating.” He looked quizzically at Arnaud. “But I always thought Death was a man. My father used to tell me King Death was winged, and wore a crown of gold.”
“What he said makes no sense,” Arnaud said, taking up the pitchfork again. “It was the drink, I suppose.”
Gaston moved toward the door. “Anyway, he’s gone. I hope he never shows his face here again.”