The Crown of Valencia Page 18

  I headed toward the largest home, ignoring the stares of the bored men clustered in small groups. I was getting close to deciding this may not have been the smartest of plans when I caught sight of Elena up ahead, the faithful Fadri and Enzo at her side. They led their horses toward a massive whitewashed home.

  I urged my horse forward. “Luis!”

  Shaking her head at the sound of my voice, Elena turned, scowling, but waited for me to catch up to them.

  Fadri took a minute to recognize me. “Bullocks! It’s you!”

  “Hey, Fadri, how’s it hanging?” The guy blushed, since some things were offensive no matter the century or language.

  “What do you want?” Elena snapped.

  “Luis, Arturo is gone.” I dismounted.

  “I do not understand. He was with you—”

  “Al-Saffah captured us as soon as we left Valvanera. They kidnapped Arturo.”

  “Sweet Mother of God,” Elena muttered. “You do not want to become involved with al-Saffah.” The look of horror on her face was gratifying. She wouldn’t help me restore the timeline, but she had a child. She knew what it would be like to lose that child.

  I pressed my lips together. “I have no choice. But I need your help. I can’t find him alone.”

  We stared at each other, the recent fight over my other request still fresh in both our minds. Finally Elena rubbed the top of her head, sending her short hair up into spikes. “I will help you find Arturo, but you could not have come at a worse time.” She stopped, perhaps measuring my ability to handle the truth. “The violence here escalates as Valencia continues to hold out. Rodrigo’s barbarian Tahir stirs up the soldiers, and for every act of his band that I and my men prevent, he and the other renegades carry out three more. There is more wine than work here, a deadly imbalance for a soldier.”

  I patted my dagger. “I can take care of myself.”

  Elena snorted. “Not unless your aim has improved. Any woman in this area is either a prostitute or a slave, or both.” Her eyes dropped to my chest and a warm flush started up my neck. “You do not hide your sex.”

  “No,” I said, raising my chin. Imagine that, I shot back with my eyes. A woman in men’s clothing who didn’t hide her sex. I said nothing.

  She jerked her head toward the house. “Ibn Jehaf comes out from the city to discuss surrender with Rodrigo. I must be there.”

  “And me?”

  Her wry smile sent electricity flashing through my nerves. Only a few nights ago I’d fallen asleep in her arms. “Come, but draw your cloak across your chest. Stay in the background.” I nodded, watching her stride ahead to the door.

  Even though I’d found her, and she’d agreed to help, something made me jumpy, possibly the mood I’d sensed the closer I’d come to Valencia. People were starving inside the gates. Elena’s world, the siege of Valencia, meant constantly breathing air thick with tension, keeping bored men out of trouble, controlling the violent Tahir and the others, and dealing with crowded living conditions, lack of food, and difficult political maneuverings.

  I took a second to greet Elena’s two faithful henchmen. Enzo grunted but looked pleased when I hugged him. His features were still blunt and unfinished, but age had sagged his cheeks and lower eyelids, softening his hard face. Fadri, taller and younger, had put on weight. He still grinned like a naughty teenager as I teased him about the extra inches around his waist. “Wife’s too good a cook in the winter,” the blond soldier said, patting his belly.

  “Fadri, you—a wife?”

  He held open the heavy wooden door. “Wife and five kids.”

  “The man is a rabbit,” Elena growled.

  “Ah, yes, but a happy rabbit,” Fadri said with a chortle. “Don’t pretend, Luis, that you aren’t happy to see your own wife once again.”

  My heart hammered in my chest as Elena and I looked at each other out of the corners of our eyes. While worry for Arturo ate at me, there was no use denying the ache in my body. Impassive, resolute, neither Elena’s face nor body gave me a single clue as to whether she felt the same.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Rodrigo had taken over a huge section of Villanueva, one of the outer neighborhoods of Valencia, and he held the largest home, a sprawling stone structure with three inner courtyards that were once lush gardens. Now, Elena said, they were trampled mud where the men kept a few of their horses.

  Elena led us into the main room, already packed with men who had not bathed in months. Rodrigo sat in a massive leather chair. Elena moved to his left side, and a glowering Moor stood on the other. As I tucked myself against the back wall, I decided the Moor must be Tahir. The man had more scars than skin, thin pale webs crisscrossing his mahogany face. Bulkier than most Moors, he hunched defensively, as if ready to tackle someone.

  Behind Elena stood Nuño Súarez, and my heart soared to see Nuño looking so well. I tried to catch his eye, but he didn’t take his gaze from the visiting emir standing before Rodrigo.

  Ibn Jehaf was a short man in flowing blue robes and a turban trimmed with gold braid. He delicately pressed a perfumed cloth under his nose. I wished I could have done the same to ward off the stench of the unwashed in such close quarters. I tried to remember Professor Kalleberg’s explanation of this whole mess. While Rodrigo and his army camped outside the city walls, within the walls a power struggle raged between Ibn Jehaf, the Moorish emir, and al-Rashid, a young man with enough financial and political clout to declare himself the new caliph, the spiritual leader of all the Moors. Clearly Ibn Jehaf and al-Rashid fought for the dubious honor of serving as Rodrigo’s puppet if he entered the city.

  “Al-Rashid is dead,” Ibn Jehaf said, his voice surprisingly loud for his size. “My guards killed him this very morning. I can now negotiate peace on behalf of the entire city.”

  Rodrigo did not respond either way to the news. While I wondered if the young boy’s death would make my job easier or harder, I couldn’t take my eyes off the man, who, in the correct timeline, was known as El Cid. Rodrigo had aged poorly. Rough living and gravity had shifted all his features into a permanent frown, with deep lines along his mouth and furrows across his weathered brow. He looked from Jehaf to the emir’s bodyguards, then back to Jehaf.

  “Prove to me he is dead, then surrender,” Rodrigo said, looking toward the edges of the crowd, then craning his neck to look through the forest of legs. Jehaf’s hands fluttered as it became clear Rodrigo was looking for something, and the poor emir had no idea what.

  Elena and Nuño scowled, while Tahir watched, mouth open in anticipation, hungry for blood. I shivered at the look in the man’s eye. What was Rodrigo doing with a man such as this in his army?

  “I have seen the boy’s body myself.” The poor man could only squeak out another sentence or two before losing his voice to fear.

  Rodrigo folded thick fingers over his still-flat stomach. “Do you have anything to unload from your horses or camels?” Tahir now grinned openly. He needed to brush his teeth.

  “No, no, my lord Rodrigo, we come with—”

  “With nothing!” Rodrigo shot to his feet. “I am soon to be your ruler, the leader of Valencia, and you come empty-handed?”

  Jehaf gasped as he realized his error. “Oh, no, my lord. It is just...the casks of gold are too heavy to—”

  “Silence,” spat the great Rodrigo Díaz, and my stomach lurched to think I was on this man’s side. “You lie! Only a fool would come before me without an offering to show respect.” He dropped back into his chair with a thud, then tugged on his beard, still braided at the ends. Rodrigo protected that beard as a woman would a child, tucking it into his mail before battle, then displaying it vainly as a sign of his manliness when it would be in no danger. “I think I will name my own gift,” Rodrigo finally said. Tahir shifted, widening his stance in anticipation. Elena shot me a hooded glance, in which probably only I could detect a deep river of anger. “You have a son, no?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Age
?”

  “Fourteen.”

  Rodrigo slapped the arm of his chair and the entire emir party jumped, to a man. Jehaf’s forehead darkened.

  “Your son will be my gift. Bring him to me in three days’ time and I will accept your surrender. We will ride back into Valencia together. The lives of your wealthy subjects will be spared as we assume possession of the city.” He chuckled. “Their monies will be taken, of course.”

  My mind raced. Today was June 3. Rodrigo was supposed to enter Valencia on June 15. Damn, the professor and I had never discussed this. What would happen if he took the city on June 6?

  “My son?” Jehaf now hid his hands beneath his robe, but terror curved his back and rolled his shoulders forward.

  “He shall be my slave, to remind Valencians of my conquest.” He leaned back and yawned, already acting the part of a sovereign ruler. “You may go now.”

  With deep, scraping bows, the soon-to-be-deposed emir backed from the room to the jeers and hoots of Tahir and the renegade Moors behind him. Obviously Tahir cared nothing that he helped a Christian conquer the Moorish city. He was a mercenary, just like Rodrigo. Just like Elena.

  I followed the crowd, but waited outside the main door on a cobblestone walkway, grateful no one paid me any attention as the men trickled down to a few, leaving just Elena and Nuño.

  I stepped before the large man. “Hey, big guy,” I said, unable to suppress my grin, even though I wasn’t sure he’d be glad to see me.

  Nuño stared, unsure why this ‘man’ before him looked so familiar. I shrugged back my cape and Nuño’s eyes widened, dropped to take in my clothes, then returned to my face. “Holy Saints,” he breathed, then shot a protective glance at Elena.

  “Do not worry,” she said. “I met her earlier.”

  He swung his massive head toward me, shaking it now, throwing his arms wide. “Kate, you’re always a surprise.”

  I squeezed him, wondering how women managed to hug men in chain mail without permanent scars on their cheeks. I stepped back, flicking his chin. “Speaking of surprise, where is all your facial hair?”

  The beard had been trimmed to a thick moustache and narrower beard. Nuño smiled, revealing deep dimples in both cheeks, which until now had always been covered by beard.

  “Oh!” I suddenly took another step back. Black curly hair. Deep dimples. Warm brown eyes. Shit, even the nose was the same. “Oh!” was all I could say. Maybe I was wrong. No, I could see her face and spirit in the gaze of the gentle man before me. Nuño Súarez had to be the father of little Solana Súarez.

  “What is wrong?” Elena asked.

  “Nothing,” I sputtered, too stunned to sort any of this out.

  *

  As I followed Elena and her men around all afternoon, they broke up fights, avoided Tahir’s men, and generally kept the peace. I couldn’t stop staring at Nuño. The resemblance only grew stronger as I did. Rumors flew around us, most of them having to do with al-Rashid, and whether the poor young man was actually dead. Elena and I had no time to ourselves, but as if magnetized, we rarely moved more than a few feet apart. Once, when I caught Elena watching me, I flushed with such a deep heat I was sure my clothes would ignite. I recovered and returned the look, struggling to mask my desire. That one night in the Valvanera gardens would never be enough, but it was all I dared take.

  As night approached, her glances grew longer and more direct, and my own anticipation kept my heart pounding so loudly I was sure everyone could hear it and know my knees were weak and my mouth too dry to swallow.

  At dusk the five of us sat cross-legged on the gritty tile floor of their quarters, Enzo thinking it would be safer if I didn’t mingle with the men in the mess hall. The wise soldier, probably pushing fifty, chewed on a hunk of dried goat meat while Fadri tossed me the round loaf of bread. I tore off a hunk, wondering if Elena ever tired of the plain, bland fare of war.

  “Al-Saffah camps near the Pelado pass,” Nuño said before guzzling the last of his ale.

  Elena shook her head. “No, I have heard they are farther south, by Utiel.”

  I sighed. “How far to either place?”

  Nuño shrugged one broad shoulder. “Half a day’s ride. The distance is not far, but the trail is steep and winding.”

  “When can we leave?”

  All three men looked at Elena, then down at the floor, as if the answer were spelled out in the dirt swirled by our movements.

  Elena ran a hand through her hair, and my hand would have followed hers if we’d been alone. “We are not able to leave now. Perhaps in two or three days.”

  I nearly spilled my water. “But Arturo was taken six days ago. I can’t wait two or three days. We must go tomorrow.”

  “Impossible,” Nuño rumbled, but he did not look at me.

  “Look, nothing happens tomorrow,” I said. “Just another day of siege.”

  They exchanged glances. “None of us can leave now,” Elena said, her eyes dark in the faltering light.

  What the hell was going on? The four of them seemed to be passing information between them without words, cutting me out altogether. Finally Elena leaned back against the wall, considering me through lowered lids. “I have already explained about Tahir and his men. They kill, maim, and torture for no other reason than sport.” She exchanged a look with Nuño, likely remembering the Caballeros de Valvanera, Christians who roamed the countryside looking for Moors to kill. Elena, Nuño Súarez and Alvar Fáñez were the only three left. They had killed for revenge and for religion. Was that any more just than killing for sport?

  “Rodrigo has always been a cruel man.” I swallowed, feeling suddenly alone. “What is so new about that?”

  Enzo snorted. “Tahir killed Alvar.”

  My hand flew to my mouth. “No!” Not the dashing one-eyed Alvar, who made everyone laugh, and Elena’s closest friend, save Nuño.

  Elena’s face twisted in a pained anger I’d never seen. “He did it right in front of Rodrigo, to spite me.”

  “But Rodrigo loved Alvar, as he loves you.” I blinked back tears. Not Alvar.

  Nuño’s jaw worked under the fine beard. “If we had not been breaking up a fight between Tahir’s men and ours near the west gate...”

  The tension in the room brought small beads of sweat to my forehead. “If you dislike Rodrigo so much, why are you still here?”

  A woman screamed just a block away. “Not again,” Elena muttered. They all leapt to their feet, drawing swords. She motioned me to the stairs. “Wait for me up there. Enzo, see she remains safe. Nuño, Fadri, with me.”

  “But—” The three Christians were gone, leaving a glowering Enzo, who motioned me toward the stairs. “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Starving Valencians lower themselves down the walls at night, hoping to escape and find food. Tahir and his men like to wait for them. Sometimes they take them to the north edge of Villanueva, where slave traders have set up a shop and will buy everyone Tahir brings to them. Sometimes Tahir takes the people to Rodrigo, who the next day has them impaled on long stakes, then raised up so they can be seen from the Valencian walls.”

  “Christ.” I headed for the stairs.

  Enzo showed me Luis’s pallet in the upper room. “As a mercenary soldier I have done many things of which I am not proud. But they all have made sense, at least to me. What Rodrigo does now, the torture, doesn’t make sense to me.” He patted me awkwardly on the shoulder. “You’ll be safe here. Sleep well. I sleep downstairs by the door.”

  Before I lay down, I lit the candle on the floor by the bed, and pulled a blank notebook from my saddlebags, which Fadri had brought up earlier. In it I wrote, in Latin, one paragraph, then I copied it over once, over twice, and over again. Seeing it written on the page gave me hope. It must come true:

  After a violent and lengthy siege, the great Rodrigo Díaz mounted his silver steed, Babieca, and on the warm, peaceful morning of June 15, 1094, rode up to the gates of Valencia, his brave and valiant army behind h
im. The gates opened, and the starving masses welcomed him as the new leader of Valencia.”

  My fingers cramped around the pencil stub, so I put the notebook back in my saddlebag. Still dressed, I lay down, pulling a blanket over me, stiff with sadness for Alvar, and worrying. Fear for Arturo left me shivering under my heavy wool.

  *

  I am five and ice skating with my mother. Unable to start or stop myself, I cling to Mom’s hand, my wooly mitten tucked into her nylon glove as we circle the huge outdoor rink. My favorite part is coming up, when I lock my knees and swing wide, free of Mom’s shadow but still tethered to her. As we enter the turn, Mom trips. When my mitten comes off and goes down in her laughing pile of arms and legs, I am suddenly on my own. Screaming, arms wide, ankles wobbling, I fly straight toward the mountain of snow and ice lining the rink. I cannot stop. I cannot turn. Worse than getting hurt is the piercing knowledge I am on my own.

  I woke up as the stairs below me creaked. I held my hand over a thumping heart, still able to smell the cold, hear the metallic swosh of skate blades, and feel the scream building in my chest. Mom always maintained I never hit the wall of snow, but that at the last minute, a young man grabbed my hand and swung me in a wide arc back to her. I have no memory of this. Just the panic of being on my own.

  I flung off the blanket and struggled to my feet, suddenly embarrassed to be caught in Elena’s bed, then realized it was actually morning. My pulse throbbed against my throat. What had been between Elena and Nuño? What might still be between them? An ugly green moth beat weakly against my heart.

  “Rough night?” I said.

  She splashed off her face with dirty water in a chipped yellow bowl, throwing me an odd look. “All my nights are rough.”

  “Is the woman okay?” Elena nodded, but offered no details. I waited until she had dried her hands on the edge of the shirt, then fluttered my own hand toward the wide pallet on the floor. “I’m sorry,...I didn’t know where—”

  “I slept downstairs.” She reached for her sword and her chain mail. Eyes flashing, jaw grim, Elena stepped back. “I will help you find Arturo, but not today. I cannot let anything interfere with our plans. If he is still alive after all these days with al-Saffah, he will still be alive in a few more.” She whistled, and within seconds Fadri came barreling up the stairs, looking uncomfortable. “Fadri, your only job for the next few days is keeping my wife in this room.”