Demon Rider

A command that conveniently forestalled argument. So the order of march made good sense, but might be mere luck. If Toby were to take charge now, what would he do? Move the two peasants to the center and put the new men at the rear? No, probably send one man on ahead to scout for trouble and have the other patrol back and forth along the line, herding the sheep.

Don Ramon had reined in to await the deputation.

'Senor?' Francisco whispered. 'He would really like you and your companions to join our troupe, although I admit his way of expressing himself is a little strange. We should all like it. What do I tell him?'

'That we pray to be considered worthy of entering his service.'

The squire beamed, but only briefly. 'You will be careful, both of you? His honor is all he has left in the world.'

'It will be safe with us,' Toby said. 'I am not at liberty to explain this, senor, but I have a deep respect for Don Ramon. To serve him will be a privilege.'

Surprise, suspicion, then recollection… 'You knew his name!'

'And I honor it. Pepita, you have to dismount now. This mule needs a rest.' Toby reached up to lift the girl down, then discarded his pack and staff. He accompanied Francisco over to the boy on the big horse. The don stared down at them with his customary arrogance.

The squire dismounted and doffed his cap in a low bow. 'Senor, Captain Longdirk entreats you to accept him and his troop into your service.'

'Of course. Did you expect him to pass up the opportunity of a lifetime?' Don Ramon looked expectantly at the new recruit and bent just enough to offer a hand, palm down.

Toby bowed, unsure what was expected of him and not entirely certain of his own intentions even yet. He looked up at the sea-blue eyes and the utter contempt in them. He was, said those eyes, dirt. But the don had looked at him like that — exactly like that — when he was on the scaffold, facing the headsman's ax. Any man capable of such defiance at the lintel of death was a man indeed.

'Senor, my company and I will be honored to serve you.' Until I cut off your head. He kissed the pale fingers. He stepped back, bowing three times, as he had seen the don himself do.

The don showed no sign of emotion at the touching ceremony, other than a sneer which said that of course the stupid foreigner had done it all wrong but his ignorance would be overlooked this time. 'Now, Captain Whatever-your-name-is, send some troopers to scout ahead. They are to keep their eyes peeled at all times for possible ambush. I want no heroics — at the slightest hint of trouble they are to run back like rabbits and report to me personally, is that clear? And set some others to patrolling the column, to make the stragglers keep up. Look lively!'

'As the caballero commands.' Toby saluted and went back to issue the necessary orders to his company.

Hamish had heard all that, and his expression was rarer than diamonds.

'Look lively now, Sergeant Jaume!' Toby said. 'Take a dozen of our best men and escort Senorita Pepita back to Brother Bernat. After that, ride herd on the civilians and make sure they keep moving along.'

'Aye, aye, sir!'

'And brush up your Catalan. Your accent's terrible.'

Hamish said something in breathy Catalan, too quick to catch. It did not sound respectful, and the grin that followed it certainly wasn't.

CHAPTER FIVE

Scouting was an easy thing to do badly, a hard one for a lone man to do well. By rights Toby ought to zigzag back and forth across the entire width of the valley, from height of land to height of land, while investigating every bush or rock in between, but there were limits to how much ground even his legs could cover and still keep him a reasonable distance in front of the main band. Fortunately his pack was lighter than it had been.

Unfortunately, it was growing ominously light, and his solitary wandering gave him time to brood over a very grim-looking future. One of the rules of field craft he had picked up in his mongrel career as soldier, peddler, teamster, smuggler, and most often fugitive, was that a man on foot could rarely carry more than ten days' rations. While he was unusually strong and not much encumbered with other gear, he had an appetite to match his size and bore Gracia's share on his back as well as his own. He estimated they had only seven days' supplies left. Hamish's pack was mostly filled with books, of course. They would not reach Barcelona in seven days. When they did, they would not find it built of gingerbread.

When he wasn't worrying about food, he worried about Oreste and himself chopping off Hamish's head.

Around noon he came to a burned-out casa. Nothing remained of the main house except fire-blackened two-story walls with secretive little window openings, and the destroyers had gone to a great deal of trouble to waste the surrounding crops, vines, and olive trees. Only the weeds prospered, already moving in to conceal evidence — a table leg, an anonymous charred bone, half a child's doll — but the ruins were deserted and there was water in the well, so it would be a good place to make the midday halt. He signaled to Don Ramon, receiving a wave from Francisco in acknowledgment. Then he placed his pack on top of a thick, head-high wall. As a picnic site it lacked shade, but it commanded a good view of the countryside.

By the time the pilgrims arrived, he had filled the water trough. Hamish quickly began assisting Senora Collel's party, probably so he could stay close to Eulalia. Old Salvador Brusi made straight for the nearest patch of shade, leaving Josep to tend the horses, although he was obviously unskilled with them. Toby went to help him unload.

Clumsy the youngster might be, but he spoke Castilian and could understand Toby's polyglot jabber. 'I apologize for my father's rudeness earlier, senor,' he said diffidently.

'I am sorry I barked back at him. How far have you come?'

'With the don? From Toledo. How long will it take us to reach Barcelona?'

'At this rate about a hundred years. The mule slows us. It is overburdened.'

'Yes. Often has the don told them so and made them carry half its load themselves, but as soon as his back is turned they put it all on the mule again.'

'Your horses could carry more. Will you consent to take some of their goods?'

Josep glanced anxiously in his father's direction. 'I shall ask, senor.'

'Without trying to charge a fee, of course.'

The young man smiled wanly. 'That will certainly be the problem.'

'It is to your advantage that we make better time.'

Having established to his own satisfaction that the Brusi baggage included substantially more than seven days' food and several suspiciously heavy bags that might well contain gold, Toby returned to his pack. Hamish was already there, perched on the wall and unwrapping some of the inevitable beans. Gracia had been invited to dine with Senora Collel, who must either have ample provisions or else did not understand the danger of starvation.

The overall picture was dismal — the three women under an orange tree that had somehow survived the devastation, the two clerics and Pepita near the well, the Rafael-Miguel foursome in another corner, the Brusis also by themselves. He looked around for the don and his squire, but they had ridden off to the nearest hillock.

'A friendly lot,' he observed.

'They're frightened,' Hamish said, chewing. 'Senora Collel is furious because she has to sleep in the open. She brought no tent. She expected comfortable inns, because that was what she enjoyed when she went south. She says it was most inconsiderate of the invaders to burn the inns.'

'Fear ought to make them unite. Or the don should. That's what a leader is for.'

'He's crazy! Mad as a wet cat.'

'So is Gracia. It's the war, I think. I'm not even sure of old Brusi, if he's trying to carry gold without a