The Crown of Valencia Page 17

  We were dumped at the first fire, guarded by four scowling women, then joined eventually by Nugaymath and Rabi’a. Nugaymath handed us each a mug of warm liquid, a spiced cider that chased the chill from my insides. As Arturo and I drank, Nugaymath stared into the fire. Rabi’a only had eyes for Arturo, and after a few guilty glances at me, he returned that look. Fear twisted my gut. There were so many more conversations he and I needed to have about being adults, like the one on the dangerous trap of lust at first sight, or the one on the practical aspects of abstinence.

  “We have heard of al-Saffah,” I said, breaking the silence. “You are greatly feared. But no one mentioned you were women.”

  Nugaymath snorted through flared nostrils. “We kill any man close enough to see our sex. Man scum of the earth, good only for penis. When we are through with them, may Allah dry up all the penis and cause them to drop like baobab pods.”

  I sensed a land mine around Nugaymath so resolved to tread carefully. “I had heard al-Saffah was three hundred strong.”

  “Main army at base camp.”

  “Where’s that?”

  She smiled. “Secret. Now, you answer questions. Why you flee Zaragoza? Where you go?”

  “I sought someone...a friend.” I struggled with what to say next. Where did this woman fall in the political mass of the peninsula? “And you? As Almoravides, why not fight at the side of Ibn Yusef of Valencia?”

  “That ugly swollen camel? He moves his bowels at the first sign of trouble. He cries like baby in battle. Next time I see him I cut off shriveled balls and feed to my dogs.”

  No love lost there. So much for avoiding land mines. I reached out another tentacle. “You fight instead for al-Rashid of Valencia?”

  “He is just another Moor. They all break the word of Muhammad. They drink alcohol. They over-tax the people. They consort with Christians. They shit through their mouths. Moors are scum. Pigs, all of them.”

  I tried to catch Arturo’s eye, but he was too absorbed in something Rabi’a was saying, so I emptied my mug and Nugaymath refilled it. A giddy calm spread through me, and I wondered briefly what else was in this cider besides spices. “And the Christians?”

  “Imbeciles, every one. Smell of armpit and toilet and rot. Tiny minds make tiny men.” She spat into the fire, setting off a sizzle. Arturo and I each drank another mug of cider, and I sighed happily as my limbs began to float away from my body.

  “So you hate the Almoravides, the Moors, and the Christians. What are you doing here?”

  I don’t know flashed through her eyes like a bolt of lightning, disappearing just as quickly. She straightened. “To spread the word of Muhammad. To return the Moors to the Prophet’s path so they can once again honor Allah.”

  Arturo belched, then laughed, trying to apologize but not quite able to get the words out. When I started giggling, Nugaymath shook her gleaming head and stood. Rabi’a took Arturo’s hand as if to lead him away, but I grabbed the other hand and yanked him to me. Both Rabi’a and Arturo protested. “Mom, I’m not a kid anymore.”

  Nugaymath held up a weathered, pale palm. “Enough. Mother and son sleep in here for the night.” She pushed Arturo and me into the nearest tent, just big enough for two. “You sleep. We guard. Do not try escape.”

  Strangely limp, I laid out the rough woolen blanket, then covered us with the other. Rocks and lumps dug into our hips and shoulders, which brought more giggles from both of us.

  “What a mess, huh, Mom?” Arturo’s forehead touched mine in the dark. “I think I’m drunk.”

  “Two drunk superheroes,” I chortled, which set us both off in a spasm of laughter I did not feel in my heart. “I think there was something in the cider.”

  “No kidding. I feel like I’m floating. Good thing I’m in a tent.” He burped. “Maybe I should have kept it in my pants like you told me to.” We both giggled wildly, but then he clutched at my hand as fear began to break through the drug. “I’m sorry I messed up, Mom. Do you suppose we’ll ever set the timeline straight? We don’t seem to be getting very far.”

  I tried not to snicker but had no control. “Don’t worry. We’ll do better. Remember, in the movies things always look really bleak just before they get better.”

  “This is the bleak part?”

  “Yup. We’re prisoners of a bloodthirsty band of pissed-off women who hate everyone, and we’re no closer to saving Elena from Rodrigo, or making sure Rodrigo takes Valencia.” We giggled uncontrollably now. “Can’t get much bleaker than this.”

  Finally our hysteria calmed, and as we clasped hands under the blanket, a deep, black, suffocating sleep reached up and took us both.

  *

  When I awoke in the dim morning light, I moaned softly as I shifted. Someone must have used my body as a punching bag overnight. Everything hurt, even my eyelids. Goddess, my head throbbed. What had been in that drink? The Almoravides were against alcohol, so it must have been something else.

  I reached behind me for Arturo and felt nothing, so I rolled over. I was alone in the tent. I shot up, a big mistake, then gripped my head as the tent spun around me. “Arturo?” I whispered. He’d probably gone outside to pee, so slowly enough I wouldn’t startle the guards and end up an arrow pincushion, I folded back the tent flap and crawled outside.

  Only then did I hear it. Silence. Total silence. One hundred people could not be this silent. I stood, crying out as my nerves snapped to attention and my heart stopped beating. I was alone in the clearing. Every tent but mine was gone. Every horse but mine, grazing fifteen feet away, was gone. The only signs of al-Saffah were the charred fire circles. I spun around and around, refusing to believe the horrible truth. “Arturo!” I screamed. Not even an echo replied.

  The horse raised its head to stare at me, grass dripping from its mouth, but that was the only change in the world around me.

  I must have gone a little mad. I grabbed the reins, threw myself onto the horse, and galloped north. I searched for signs that many horses had passed—trampled grass, broken branches—but found nothing in the rough ground. I was not a tracker. I rode for an hour, then rode the hour back to the tent. I rode east up into the mountains, picking my way slowly through the rocks, but nothing. I returned to the tent and rode south, stopping to water the horse in a narrow creek. I even rode west, deeper into Christian territory, but found no sign of al-Saffah or my son.

  Late morning I sat by the tent, the last place I’d touched Arturo, the last place I’d heard his voice, felt his breath on my hand. Hungry, thirsty, filthy, aching inside and out, I threw back my head, howling with grief. I pounded the ground with my fists, cursing all I could see, cursing the future, Anna, and myself. This was all my fault. I should have anticipated Arturo’s actions and locked him up somewhere before I’d left home, because ever since he’d turned fourteen, he thought he knew best and that my IQ had suddenly dropped way under the radar.

  But now my son was gone. I’d lost him—the little boy who wanted to be an adult but who wanted to go home so he could finish being a kid.

  Screw the timeline. Screw the Christians, the Moors, and the Almoravides. I would push on to Valencia. Elena would help me find Arturo. She had to. Then I’d take Arturo home and never, ever return to this cruel time.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Focusing on details was the only way to control my panic, the only way to avoid imagining Arturo lying broken and bleeding somewhere, or even worse. No, I would not think that.

  Barring any problems, I calculated a grueling six-day ride to the coast and Valencia. Grimaldi had said al-Saffah was rumored to be based somewhere in the Sierra de Cuenca, the mountain range that cut straight west from Valencia, but I could wander those mountains and die an old woman before I ever found Arturo. I needed more information. Damn, and why did Elena have to be so fast on a horse and me so slow?

  My saddlebags overflowed with Grimaldi’s bread and oat cakes and sausage, so food would not be a problem, and Arturo’s dagger rested in the sheath s
trapped beneath my skirt. Nugaymath and company must have decided to leave me a weapon in exchange for my son.

  I’d studied maps of eastern Spain between Zaragoza and Valencia with Professor Kalleberg, so knew the terrain ahead was mountain ridges worn down by small rivers snaking their way north to the Ebro or east to the Mediterranean. As long as I stayed by the rivers I knew, or kept the early morning sun on my face for those stretches without river, I would be fine.

  The mountains were so thick with spruce that from one high ridge they appeared as moss-covered stones stretching for miles. I suddenly felt as small as an ant facing the journey ahead. The road, nothing more than tracks worn in the grass, was easy to follow. Feather clouds dusted the highest ridges. God damn it. How dare it be such a perfect day? If my heart could influence life, furious thunderclouds would wrestle their way across the sky, lightning would blind al-Saffah, and rain would drown the wildflowers.

  For years I’d worried about my ability to be a good parent and had watched poor Arturo so closely, terrified I’d do something wrong and mess up his life. Eventually Laura, and the parents I came to know, all convinced me I was doing a great job, and I became one of those proud and self-confident parents. Now, however, as I rode alone, all alone, I felt a sense of failure too deep to express. I had lost my son. I couldn’t stop saying those awful words in my head.

  I passed a few settlements where dusty children ran to the road and waved as I passed. By late afternoon I’d crossed the pass and begun my descent to the picturesque Río Jalón. Rabbits and deer skittered out of sight into the woods, and once I thought I heard a bear snort.

  White sun baked every clearing, every rise in the road, as well as my back, neck, and head, throwing every dip, every small valley into blissfully cool shadows. By nightfall I neared Calatayud but chose to camp outside it in a grove of trees. My butt hurt and my thighs ached, but pain was unimportant.

  I snuck into town, stole a man’s shirt, pants, and tunic off a line, and abandoned my stupid skirt. In my loose pants, shirt and tunic, I either appeared as a noble down on his luck, or a peasant who’d done well. The tunic was a little tight across the chest, but I made no effort to disguise my breasts. Anyone having trouble with a short-haired woman wearing men’s clothing could just stuff it.

  For the next two days I followed the Río Jiloca to Albarracín, where late in the evening locals helped me find a fresh horse and the road to Teruel. The third day, as I joined the main road to Valencia, which snaked south along the Río Turia, I talked with anyone I met. A woman dragging a reluctant goat to market told me Ibn Jehaf had killed al-Rashid. Another gossip-monger, bent over his donkey’s neck, said al-Rashid killed Ibn Jehaf. Whenever I asked about al-Saffah, people averted their eyes, searching the horizon for the red capes and drawn bows. The farther south I traveled, the more nervous people became, which lifted my spirits immensely. I was getting closer.

  *

  Even though I’d chosen a mossy spot for my bed, the springy plant had quickly compressed under my weight, so I woke up grunting at the hard soil grinding against my hip. Lying on my back, woolen blanket around me, I watched the morning sky lighten in the east, a pale blue melting into indigo, but felt nothing. Ever since I’d lost Arturo, a coldness had spread through me. My body temperature remained the same, but my veins flowed with arctic water, my heart an iceberg adrift. Nothing mattered anymore, only Arturo. I would go through the motions to restore the timeline. and I would save Elena if I could, but I was an armored tank now. I would do whatever it took to get Arturo safely home. I would lie, cheat, steal, maim, or kill to have him once again roll his eyes at my bad jokes or protest with an impatient “Mom” when I called him “honey” in public. I struggled with my confusion over Elena. How could I pull this off with her working against me?

  Camped in a small grove off the road, I heard the occasional creaking of wagon wheels or the subdued discussion of passing riders, so I rose and stretched, physically reluctant to climb back into the saddle. After eating and splashing off my face and arms in the pristine river, I pulled out Arturo’s dagger to practice. In an odd way, it helped me think, Since nothing intruded, I focused on the tree and the dagger. After twenty minutes my right shoulder burned, but something had shifted since I’d come back in time. My aim was consistent, my throwing strength greater. I walked farther and farther from the target tree, grinning broadly when, at thirty feet, my throw snapped into the bark with a satisfying ‘thunk.’

  “Quite impressive, Señora Vicente.”

  I whirled around. The infernal Rafael Mahfouz stood behind me, shadowed by an ugly goon with a missing ear and a ragged, patchy beard. Both held drawn swords. I sprinted for my dagger, but Rafael grabbed the back of my tunic and yanked me off my feet. I struggled against him while the goon retrieved my dagger, then Rafael released me.

  I pressed a palm to my forehead, amazed at how dead I felt inside. “Not you again.”

  Mahfouz grinned, but not as cockily as before, while he sheathed his sword. Malice tugged at the corners of his mouth and humiliation swam in his eyes. “I bring reinforcements. Where is your moron of a son?”

  I exhaled loudly. “That ‘moron’ wiped your ass, Mahfouz, so watch it.” I cut a quick glance through the trees to the road. No one passed. “You’re the moron. How on earth did you find me?”

  “Ask a question here, a question there. You were not hard to find for Caquito and myself, even in your ridiculous disguise. But where’s your son? I want a piece of him.”

  I choked as I rolled up my blanket. “Arturo is not here. Al-Saffah took him.”

  At the happy gleam in Mahfouz’s eyes, I wanted to squeeze his throat so hard his eyes would pop out.

  Caquito growled at Rafael in disgust. “We both come all this way to capture one woman?”

  Rafael shrugged. “Señora de Palma says it’s vital that this woman be taken. We do what we must. Señorita, you will come with us.”

  “Go screw yourself,” I snarled. “I’m not going with you.” I stomped over to my horse and tied on my blanket.

  Rafael chuckled as he came up behind me. “You may have the spunk of your son, but I doubt you—”

  A squall line hit somewhere in my belly and spread through me. Although it had been a few years since my Tae Kwon Do days, my body still remembered its months of practice. Relieved I’d ditched the skirt, I calmly turned my back to Rafael. As he stepped toward me, I whirled and aimed a round house kick right for his solar plexus. A hair off balance, I missed, and slammed my heel into his groin. Mahfouz doubled over like a flower snapped off at the stem. “Oops. I missed.”

  “Hey, stop that,” Caquito muttered as he lumbered toward me. Two sloppy jumping front snap kicks later, the smelly man rolled on the ground, clutching his jaw. The two Moors weren’t the only ones in pain, since my thigh muscles screamed at the unfamiliar punishment. I found a rope in Rafael’s saddlebag and tied their hands and ankles together around the nearest tree. I yanked my dagger out of Caquito’s filthy boot. Rafael raised his groggy head as I mounted. “Kate Vincent, I will bring you in one day soon.”

  “Get used to disappointment, moron.” I slapped the men’s horses on their rumps to send them thundering down the road, then gathered up my own reins.

  “I have no choice but to kill you the next time we meet. Señora de Palma will understand.”

  “Kiss my ass, Mahfouz,” I snapped, and urged my horse up onto the road and toward Valencia.

  *

  I’d been right. Six days’ hard ride brought me to Liria, where the Mediterranean sun softened the mountains into foothills, then melted everything into a vast, fertile plain stretching toward the ocean. Seagulls wheeled overhead, a sign I was almost there. During my journey I’d left May behind and slid three days into June, which meant time was leaping ahead, and I couldn’t keep up.

  A few irrigated fields exploded with life, but most had been trampled and destroyed. The devastation grew worse as I moved closer to Valencia. Whole villag
es were burned, with only charred stone foundations and a handful of old men left wandering in confusion. The road grew thick with merchants traveling to sell their meat, ale, and women to the men camped around Valencia. The smell of wet ash and rotting offal, left behind as the army butchered its meat along the way, became familiar as I moved from one outlying community to the next. Soon I passed knots of Christian soldiers sitting around overturned casks playing dice, downing huge mugs of wine. A few watched me, openly curious, but no one stopped me.

  At a rise in the road, I reined in my exhausted horse and inhaled the scent of the sea. Half a mile ahead rose the rough wall enclosing the city of Valencia. Between my position and the walled city, stone and wood buildings formed a continuous forest that grew right up to the towering gray-brown wall. Valencia had obviously long outgrown its Roman walls, and what I’d call suburbs radiated in all directions. The city’s white towers and massive arches seemed to float above the war-battered stone wall. Orange and blue tiles skipped across the roofs I could see.

  Mosque peaks spiraled into the sky, gold and burgundy and white, but had there been a call to prayer, I certainly wouldn’t have heard it over the din of men shouting and women clanking cooking pots and merchants advertising their wares. I don’t know why I’d expected a siege to be quiet. Perhaps the noise stopped at the walls, where on the other side, in Valencia, people were starving, thanks to Rodrigo Díaz, the man I was supposed to ensure captured the throne.

  I stopped a Christian foot soldier. “Rodrigo Díaz?”

  The man spat a wad of phlegm about five feet, then jerked his head toward the east. After a few more grunted answers and jerky nods, I ended up at the edge of a neighborhood that Rodrigo had mostly spared. A few homes had been partially burned but still had walls and roofs. I saw only soldiers coming and going from the buildings, the residents having long since fled.