She had as few words of Castilian as Toby of Catalan. Speech could help little, but shiny red lips and dark eyes said everything.
"Are you finding any, senor?"
"No. A few."
She knelt to search among the leaves. In a moment she said something excited and beckoned him. When he squatted to see, she popped a raisin in his mouth. Her eyes again, the smile, her hand on his thigh...
He stood up and shook his head. "Not me, senorita. Try Jaume."
She glared at him and caught his wrist, trying to pull him down beside her. He walked away, conscious of sweat, the oppressive heat, the pounding of his heart. He despised himself for them and the lingering tingle in his loins. Were all men so easily tempted, or was he a weakling? How did other men keep their self-control in such situations?
Many didn't, he supposed. He was not the only bastard in the world.
He paced around, afraid to settle. Guard duty was more interesting at night, when a single cracking twig might be the only warning. Here, the empty landscape made it too easy. There was no sign of the don—had he left his new deputy in charge, or did he hope to catch him neglecting his duty? What disaster had brought a hidalgo to such penury that he could afford no better arms than discards and no squire except an old man with crippled feet?
Seeing that Eulalia had returned to the senora, he went back to the vineyard and scavenged some more. Later he saw a chicken in the undergrowth and spent time stalking it. It would not have survived so long had it not learned to be wary, and it eluded him. He did not waken Hamish. He had never intended to keep his promise.
When he went to the well for a drink, he found Gracia there in her widow's weeds, still wearing the bottle that proclaimed her delusions. She was not as tall as Eulalia, and her face was less striking, but lovely enough. So fragile! She was delicate, she had suffered, she was not perfectly sane by the world's standards. One look at her and her sheer vulnerability made him want to clasp her in his arms and swear to defend her against anything for ever. She was much more dangerous than Eulalia.
Just one kiss? There need be no seduction, no false promises, just a moment of mutual tenderness in a world unbearably harsh.
No, not one.
"Senor, a favor?"
"If I can, senora."
She clutched the absurd bottle in both hands. "This brings questions."
How surprising! "Yes?"
She raised her chin as she did when she spoke of her mission to the dead. "My voices tell me that it will be safe with you, senor. Will you put it in your pack and carry it for me?"
It couldn't weigh much, one empty bottle. "Of course. I am honored to be trusted with it, because I know how much you value it."
She smiled again and lifted the cord over her head. He took it and hung it around his.
Fortunately he had very good reflexes. He caught the bottle before it hit the ground. Then he straightened up to face dismay that became astonishment that instantly turned to fear. She backed away, staring at him like a cornered fawn. The knots had untied themselves? No, the hob had untied them. Why should the hob object to an empty bottle?
Because it wasn't empty? He felt the hairs on his nape lift.
There was no use trying to think up some prosaic explanation. "It would seem, senora, that the wraiths do not approve of me as a guardian." He thrust the bottle at her quickly, lest it wriggle snakelike out of his hands. "Come with me and put it in Diego's pack. It will be safe with him."
"But...? But why? How did that happen?"
"You saw what I saw." He shrugged. "I have a sort of curse on me, senora. The wraiths may not approve of me, but I am sure that they will not find fault with my friend."
"Curse?"
"Senora, what would happen if I told the Inquisition that you hear voices and gather the ghosts of the dead?"
Her lips curled back from her teeth in terror. "You will not!"
"Of course I will not. And you will not tell them about my curse! We are companions, friends. Now we share each other's secrets." After all, they were both crazy. She collected the dead, he had visions. Lunatics should stick together.
"What is this curse?" she asked uncertainly.
"It is a long story, and painful. It is why I go on pilgrimage."
She thought he meant the tutelary at Montserrat, of course. He was thinking of Oreste's relentless pursuit. He reassured her, pointing out that no evil had come to her in the last few days while she was in his company. He took her over to the place where Hamish was still snoring, and together they wrapped the bottle securely in Hamish's blanket and put it in his pack with the books.
CHAPTER SIX
When he saw the don and his squire riding down from their knoll, Toby went around the camp and wakened the pilgrims. Pepita was already alert, combing her hair; she jumped up and followed him, all big bright eyes and serious.
"Senor..." She tried to say "Longdirk" and stumbled over it.
"Call me Toby."
"Senor Toby." She spoke very solemnly. "I asked Brother Bernat why I saw two of you and he said that that was a very bad thing to say about anyone and I must tell you I was sorry and promise you I would never tell anyone else."
He smiled down at her—a long way down, for the top of her head barely reached his ribs. "Then I thank you and accept your promise. Did he tell you why you see two of me, though?"
She pouted. "No. He said I will understand later, and perhaps you could see two of me."
"No, just one. But it's a very pretty one."
She liked that. He wanted to ask more questions, but it seemed unfair to interrogate a child. He would have a talk with her sharp-eyed guardian.
"Are you going to catch the horses, Senor Toby? I can help! I'm very good with horses."
She certainly was. She walked up to each of Senora Collel's three in turn, took hold of its halter, then led it to Toby. He was certain they would not have been so cooperative for him. She demonstrated how the chairs and their footboards were secured to the pack saddles and explained earnestly how important it was that the folding stepladder be the last thing loaded on the packhorse, so that it would be available for the ladies to mount and dismount.
Then the two of them went to help Josep, whose bumbling efforts to catch the Brusi horses had put them to flight. He had gone around behind them and was driving them back toward the casa, but they were still at liberty, staying well ahead of him. Pepita walked out to meet them and they surrendered to her with no arguments.
Josep arrived after them, hot and ashamed. He was not only inexperienced, he was obviously nervous of the big teeth and feet. Pepita's complete lack of fear could not be helping his feelings, although he thanked her graciously enough.
"I am better with ledgers, Captain," he muttered, red-faced.
"Each to his own. Figures terrify me. Let's go and steal some of the mule's load."
"Oh... I have not yet asked my father's permission, Captain."
"Call me Toby. If he doesn't like it, he'll have to take care of the matter himself. I need you to interpret for me. Pepita, you go back to Brother Bernat now."
"Why?"
Because there might be trouble.
"Because you need to put your hair up."
Pepita flounced off angrily. Toby led one of the packhorse over to the Rafael-and-Miguel group, who had just managed to drive Thunderbolt into a corner, where he was being difficult, with hooves flying. Josep explained their intentions in a rapid stream of Catalan, and the peasants grew difficult also. Their surly faces dark with suspicion, they shouted that they did not trust offers of free transportation, they did not trust Senor Brusi or foreigners. They did not trust anyone. The tall one with the big nose was Rafael, the burly one with the long black beard was Miguel. The women were still unnamed.