Spring, 1505
Basque Country
Elena
Xabi’s sisters argued over the wedding plans without end. It was just as well, Elena thought. She had never planned a party in her life. These Basque people had celebrations for every conceivable event, and the sisters spent days jabbering about menus, guests, music, dancing, and other details that Elena found bone-crushingly dull. She withdrew more and more into her own memories just to keep herself entertained on long evenings.
The family settled on a summer wedding during the time of the full moon. Soon they would fan out across the hills and inform their neighbors of the festivities. Endless arguments transpired about the merits and disadvantages of including various far-flung relations. Apparently some were kind, upstanding, and generous, and some were stingy, sly, and rude. The problem as far as Elena could tell was that none of the siblings could agree on which relatives held which of these characteristics. If her Basque was better, she would stand and inform them that most people carried around a blend of all these qualities, and how they were seen depended entirely on the person who did the seeing. Therefore, they were doomed to argue forever.
Since her Basque was weak, she settled on a brief comment, given one evening after Xabi roared a long, decisive “Hush!” at his siblings and their offspring.
She smiled her thanks to him for the courtesy, and stood facing the assembled group.
“All are invited,” she said.
Blank stares ensued.
“All the relatives are invited to the wedding,” she managed to elaborate.
Eyes turned to Xabi. He nodded his agreement.
One of the sisters let loose with a high-pitched protest. Xabi held up his hand to silence her.
“You’ve argued long enough,” he said. “Elena’s right. Best to invite all of them. Yes, some of you hate some of them. You don’t want them drinking our wine, eating our cheese and our hens and our pigs. Well, it’s my household now, and my wedding, and I say we share what we’ve got with all the relatives. Even the ones you don’t like.”
There was a tense, simmering silence. One by one, the siblings edged away from the great hearth, refusing to meet Elena’s eyes as they said good night. She knew they blamed her for the decision, and she did not care.
On an afternoon in early spring there was a knock at the door. A traveling monk on his mule had made the long trek from the valley to the east, where a monastery lay. He claimed he had a message for Elena.
They sat him at the long oak table and plied him with soup, with rabbit stew, with wine. Neither Elena nor Xabi could read (well, truth be told, Xabi could read a little, and he knew how to write numbers and figure a sum, for a shepherd who hires himself out to the rich had better know if he’s being cheated). But it did not matter—the monk had no letter; there was no seal for Elena to break.
He ate his fill, then looked at her and said, “Brother Arros is very ill. A monk from San Juan de la Peña sent word to all of the monasteries in the west, seeking you. There is no one else in these mountains who can heal one so ill. And no one who knows him so well as you.”
“This can’t be.” Elena’s words were barely a whisper.
He nodded solemnly. “I swear by all the saints, it is the truth. He cannot walk, they say. He talks, but in an odd, babbling way.”
“Does he have fever?”
“That I do not know.” The monk slurped from his cup.
“It is a sickness that comes with old age, I reckon.” Elena’s mind shuffled through memories of people she had healed, people she had watched die. “When did he fall ill?”
“In the autumn.”
“And he still lives. There’s still time, then.”
Xabi looked at her, startled. “Time?”
“To cure him of this ailment. Come morning, I’ll travel with the monk back to his monastery and stay the night in the guesthouse. The snows are gone, it will be quick riding to San Juan de la Peña. I’m sure I can find a monk or two—maybe a whole mule train—to ride along with. It’s the spring rush, after all.”
As soon as spring came, the monasteries sent wool, grain, and other goods over the mountains into Béarn. While snowmelt swirled down the mountainsides in rivers gray with silt, the King’s Road swelled with pack animals on their way to market towns along the pilgrim’s route. Elena always took hidden tracks through the woods, avoiding the mule trains, and she had every intention of doing it again. But the idea of her traveling alone always worried Xabi.
She stood.
“Where are you going?” Xabi rose from his chair.
“For my things. We’ll leave at dawn.”
“But the wedding...”
“It’s waited this long. It can wait a while more if need be.”
“My muscles are sore from the journey,” the monk complained. “Surely a longer rest is due me.”
Elena strode to the doorway and turned. Her gaze slid over the monk, his frowning face, the bulge of his round stomach pressing through his robes.
“You’ll rest when you return home,” she told him flatly. “Your belly is full, you’re warmed through. A good night’s sleep and you’ll be right as rain.”