Belén intones, “I swear my life and service unto you. I swear to protect you and to honor you. I am yours to command in all things. For as long as I live, your people shall be my people, your ways my ways, your God my God.”
I take his hands and pull him to his feet while everyone in the group mutters, “Selah.”
He towers over me. I can’t help but stare at his eye patch. He was tortured. For me. Because he refused to give me up once he realized his mistake. On impulse, I pull him close and hug him tight.
He whispers, “Thank you, Elisa.”
Behind him, I glimpse Mara’s face. Her cheeks shine with moonlit tears.
I pull away, hoping I have not forgiven too easily. But it feels right to do it. “I need your help,” I tell him. “Tonight.”
“Anything.”
When I explain about the riders following us, he nods, unsurprised. I don’t even have to tell him what to do. He simply says, “I’ll be back by morning.” And he slips away into the darkness.
“Who do you think it is?” Mara asks, once he is gone.
I sit back down and cross my legs. “I suspect Conde Eduardo. He was displeased to hear of this journey and its purpose. He is set on me marrying a northern lord. And he knows I’ve been keeping things from him.”
“He does not know about me, yes?” Storm says in his sibilant voice.
“That is one of the things I’ve been keeping from him.”
“If they are the conde’s people,” Ximena says, “we might be able to use them to our advantage. Set a false trail, maybe.”
“Exactly what I was thinking,” I say.
“What if they’re thieves?” says a female voice I don’t recognize.
Hector barks a laugh. “Then they are poor thieves indeed,” he says. “Five against all of us?”
He is right to be amused. He and Tristán could probably defeat five common thieves alone. What I worry about, what I don’t say, is that they might be assassins. They might be observing, patient and cold, waiting for the right moment to creep into our camp.
Perhaps Hector is thinking the same thing, because he says, “Until we know for sure, we’re doubling our watch. Elisa, will you ride in the servants’ carriage tomorrow, out of sight?”
I open my mouth to protest, to say that I prefer my own two feet to a hot, bumpy carriage, but then I remember that I’ve decided to trust his judgment in these matters. “All right,” I say. And it really is.
Chapter 18
I’M awakened by a hand pressing across my mouth. I arch away from the intruder, pulse pounding, drawing breath through my nose. It’s happening at last, what I have feared—
“Elisa!” comes Belén’s whispered voice. “It’s me.”
I go limp with relief. He removes his hand, saying, “Shh!”
“What do you think you’re doing?” I whisper furiously.
“I wanted to see if I could sneak past Tristán’s sentries and the Royal Guard and into your tent.”
“Oh.” I push back my bedroll and sit up, then rub warmth into my arms. My guard is the most elite force in the country. Surely not just anyone could slip by them. Weakly I say, “Well, you are one of the sneakiest people I’ve ever known.”
“I don’t deny it.” I can’t see him in the dark, but I hear the smile in his voice.
“What did you find?”
My tent tilts precariously as he knocks the wall crossing his legs. “Five men trying to pass as desert nomads. By their clothing, you’d think they came from my own village. But the hair isn’t right. It’s too . . . careful. Coifed, even. And their horses are stout and sea bred. No colors, no markings, but their tack is high quality. Even the weave of their saddle blankets testifies to wealth.”
“So they might be Conde Eduardo’s men after all. Or the general’s.”
“I recognized one. I don’t know his name, but I’ve seen him at the conde’s shoulder. A very tall man, taller than me. Fine, straight hair slicked back with oil. He seems young at first glance, but I’d wager not. He has the look of experience about him.”
I search my memory, cataloging the conde’s advisers and attendants. There is only one I’ve never encountered. “You may be describing Franco,” I say. “An elusive man. I don’t know that I’ve ever spoken to him.”
He pauses, shifts in his rear. “Elisa . . . you should know. If Humberto were alive, he would be very proud of you.”
The hurt that wells up is so unexpected that it’s a moment before I can speak. “Thank you,” I manage. I have to redirect the subject. I’m not sure I want to talk about Humberto. “Did you overhear anything?”