After a time, we worked out a processional order that worked fairly well. Esky went first with one of his brothers, leading one packhorse, then Giles, then me, then the horses with the coffin led by two brothers, then the other little men coming along single file. We went up for a time, then abruptly down. Giles asked Esky where we were going.
The little man was breathing hard. “There’s a place we can get across the gorge and onto the road to Santiago,” he said.
Giles looked at me and shrugged. It looked like we were going to St. James’s shrine whether we wanted to or not. I wondered if we would run into Margery Kempe. After that, I tried not to wonder anything or think anything except about hanging on. Riding a horse uphill is difficult. Riding a horse downhill is exhausting.
Night came. The little men went off in all directions, looking for a camp site, finding one at last under an overhanging ledge of stone where we could not be seen from the sky. I thought perhaps they were being overcareful. We must have come far from Marvella by this time. Then, late in the darkness, I was awakened by the same cry we had heard the night before. Around me I could hear indrawn breaths, silence. The horses stopped munching outside among the trees. After a time the cry came again, far away to the north, echoed by the howling of wolves. The little men began to breathe once more.
“What was it?” I asked Eskavaria.
“Night lammergeier,” he said, not meeting my eyes. The lammergeier are huge vultures of the Pyranees, sometimes called “bone-breakers” because of their habit of dropping large bones from great heights to shatter them and get at the marrow. Ordinarily, I believe, they do not fly at night. I thought it wisest not to pursue the matter.
Midmorning, this morning, we came to the road to Santiago. The road is wide enough that the coffin can be slung between two horses once more. My granddaughter is in it. Eskavaria is leading the packhorse. His brothers have faded back amongst the trees, tears running down their faces. A traveler we met coming up from Spain tells us today is the fifteenth of August. We have time yet to get to Compostela before fall.
ST. HELENA’S DAY, AUGUST, YEAR OF OUR LORD 1417
We have traveled for several days on the downward road, very slowly because of the coffin, seeing no living things except an occasional herd of ibex, a few skulking foxes, or the ubiquitous marmots. Then, this morning, shortly after we began our journey for the day, we came upon a large party of noble men and women together with their servants, all camped among their wagons beside the road. It appeared they might have spare mounts, and Giles went to see if he could purchase a packhorse to carry the supplies carried by Esky’s mount. Esky had been walking, and it had slowed our progress somewhat.
Several of the young men came over to us where we waited, looking us over in an insolent manner, until they saw the coffin itself. Then they became quiet. One of them, a boy scarcely fourteen or fifteen years old, pressed his face to one of the transparent bits of crystal and peered within. I thought it best, since he was surrounded by his fellows, not to antagonize him or cause any notice by using enchantment. I had seen similar gangs of young men, though not noble young men, in Bayonne, where they were said to roam the streets at night, seeking unprotected young women they might rape and ruin. It was a kind of game with them, and the insolence of these young nobles seemed also a game: cockiness pushed to its limits.
The coffin-peering youngster stood up, very arrogantly, and asked me who she was.
“My granddaughter, child,” I said, unthinking.
One of the other young men started toward me, angrily, but another courtier, a very handsome, slightly older young man, put out his hand and said softly, “The young man who addressed you is Prince Edward. Fourth son of King Zot of Nadenada.”
I bowed, as best I could from atop my little horse. “Your Highness,” I said to the arrogant lad. The soft-spoken courtier regarded the prince with a worried expression.
“And you are, sir?” I asked the pleasant-voiced courtier.
“Vincent,” he told me with a smile, taking his eyes from his master for only a moment. “Vincent d’Escriban.”
Giles returned from the encampment shaking his head. No horse for sale. Well, it had been worth the trial.
I bowed again. “We must depart,” I said. “It is a long journey to Compostela.”
“Is she dead?” the prince asked, taking hold of my horse’s bridle to prevent my moving.
“We think not,” I said. “She may be under an enchantment.”
The young man looked at Vincent and said, “I want her.”
Vincent and I exchanged uncertain glances.
“I want her,” the boy repeated. “Buy her for me.”
“She is a person,” I explained softly. “Not a toy. Not a mannequin. She is not something one can buy.”
“Buy her for me,” screamed the prince, growing very red in the face.
Vincent shrugged an apology toward me and moved to take the young prince in hand by distracting him from his madness. Esky took the right-hand coffin horse by the reins and led him purposefully onto the road. Giles and I followed, on our horses. The prince broke away from his keeper, dashed into the road and threw himself in front of the coffin horses. One horse stumbled. The rope came loose. The other horse bolted. The coffin fell into the road. The lid bounced off. My granddaughter’s
