Ken Hood - Demon Rider

The childish treble rang out again. "Tobias and Guillem and Jaume, we thank you for your help and give you our blessing. Pepita, dear child, weep no more. We told you, we warned you, and we love you still. Why should you weep now that your friend's task is ended? He has completed what he gave his life to. He is with us and will always be with us."

Pepita pulled loose from Toby's embrace and knelt down beside him, choking with her efforts not to sob. The big man put an arm around her.

"Some of you still doubt," the boy said. "We will give you a sign to comfort you. Eduardo, what happened to your eyes?"

"I was hit by a sword, holiness," responded a voice from the crowd.

"Domènech, help Eduardo come forward."

The crowd seemed to rustle. A tall young man with a bandage over his face rose up in their midst and then helped an older, white-haired man to his feet. People cleared a path for them as they shuffled to the front, the old man leading the younger by the hand.

"You may remove the wrapping, Eduardo," the boy said. "Can you see now?"

"Yes! Yes!" The young man threw away the cloth and fell to his knees. "Praise to the spirit! Praise to Saint Bernat!"

Voices picked up the refrain. Hamish, like everyone else, lowered his face to the floor in acknowledgment of the miracle.

"Joaquim has some good years left in him," the tutelary said with a dry chuckle so like Brother Bernat's that it brought a lump to Hamish's throat. "Fetch Joaquim here. We will cure his legs and he will be keeper of our sanctuary. You may have Sancho back now, Joanna. Give him our thanks for lending us his voice."

Hamish looked up just in time to see the glow fade from the boy and his blank expression change to one of horror as he realized where he was. He sprinted down from the dais, red-faced and bewildered, only to be grabbed in a fierce hug by a short, fat woman, probably his mother. The building buzzed with excited chatter.

The town had a tutelary again, it would live. And even Toby had been expecting this! How had he known? Why had he not discussed it? Could it be that Hamish had been so tied up in his problems with Eulalia that he had not been paying attention to what was going on?

"Our work here is done," Father Guillem said, rising. "Are you consoled now, Pepita? That is not Brother Bernat lying there, so you need say no more farewells."

He put an arm around her to lead her away, but at once the strangers were mobbed by the excited, grateful villagers offering food, shelter, hospitality—anything. Toby and the monk declined as graciously as possible, explaining that they were on a pilgrimage and must rejoin their friends.

A little later, as they were leaving the town, Hamish said: "I don't understand. I never read anything about this!"

Toby smiled, although his eyes were still rimmed with red. "You can't find everything in books. It is called alumbradismo ." He was amused at being able to lecture Hamish for a change, curse him! "There is more than one way to put a spirit into a person. Or into a town, apparently."

"But... not a hob?"

Shadows darkened Toby's face. "No, just an elemental, and a lifetime of example. I expect Pepita will explain it to you, if you ask her nicely."

He was not going to, obviously.

Two days of steady rain had left everyone grumpy, miserable, and soaked. Father Guillem, coming trudging back along the trail to rejoin the pilgrims, looked like a bedraggled black beetle, and the way he was wielding his staff suggested that he was a beetle in a very foul temper. But why was he so obviously ignoring the man on a donkey following a few paces behind him?

Toby was no more cheerful than anyone else. He ought to be practicing his meditation exercises and cultivating serenity of mind, but he had his hands full with Smeòrach, whose simple mind was anything but serene. He kept trying to stamp on Toby's feet and jerking his head to try and pull his bridle loose from Toby's grasp. He hated the rain just as much as people did, and standing still was never his strong point anyway. As a landsknecht horse he associated a village like that one with nice dry stables, perhaps even oats or hot bran mash, so please could they go there now?

Evidently not. There were men with guns and pikes at the gate, and Father Guillem's efforts to negotiate had obviously not prospered. He was wearing a very unpious scowl as he returned to report.

"We are not welcome?" Toby asked.

The monk shook his head, shaking water from his cowl. "They refused absolutely."

"Did you explain that I am a Castilian nobleman?" the don demanded incredulously.

"I did, my son. And also that I am a senior official of the abbey. I even mentioned they were turning away women and a child, but it made no difference."

"Did you offer to pay?" Josep asked. His lips were blue and his teeth chattered. Most of the others looked just as distressed.

"Even that." Father Guillem shrugged and made an effort to be charitable. "They have their reasons. The Fiend's forces withdrew a few weeks ago—they did not despoil the countryside here, because of the truce that had been agreed, but a company of landsknechte was billeted in the village and caused all the usual troubles. Now that they have gone, there are lawless bands marauding, preying on innocent travelers or anyone else they can catch. They warned me we must be on our guard."

"But there are no troops around?" Toby said. "No garrison around Montserrat?" For him, that was very welcome news.

"They know of none." The monk looked around his dispirited companions and raised his voice. "Be cheerful, my children! There is a fine campsite half a league farther on. Tomorrow is the last day. By nightfall tomorrow we shall be safe and comfortable in the monastery."

"It can't be too soon. Your companion, Father?"

Everyone turned to look at the other man, who was just sitting on his donkey and smiling in patient silence at nobody in particular. He was clean shaven, fortyish, bareheaded. His jerkin and hose were plain but well made, shabby from long wear yet still serviceable. Apparently he enjoyed being wet, because the hood of his brown woollen cloak lay unused on his sodden shoulders.

Father Guillem frowned. "His name is Jacques. He is a servant of the monastery—a gardener, cleaner, porter, anything of that sort. He says he was sent to meet Senor Longdirk."

Everyone now looked at Toby.

"I am Senor Longdirk."

The man smiled uncertainly at him.

"You have a message for me?"

"No, senor."

"Then who sent you to meet me?"

The smile faltered. "Don't know, senor."

All eyes switched back to Father Guillem. "He is simple. I know him and know of him, but I have never spoken with him, except to order him to fetch something or clean somewhere. The villagers say he arrived last night and was refused admittance. He must have slept under a tree. He was still there this morning, waiting for Senor Longdirk. Frankly, I don't think you'll get any more out of him."

Toby glanced hopefully at Hamish, but he seemed as bereft of ideas as everyone else.

"The tutelary must know I am coming, though."

"Obviously!" the monk growled. "But what does it wish to tell you and why pick so useless a messenger?"

"Would the spirit itself have sent him, or the abbot, or who?"

"I have absolutely no idea." Bad-tempered black beetles disliked mysteries just as much as Hamish did. "I wouldn't trust Jacques to find his left hand with his right. The fact that he found you at all suggests that the spirit guided him." With a little more grace the monk conceded, "There is no harm in him."

"Did you search him for a letter? His pockets?"