“By Fre Ebertoz and by the knight Maurixio of Linnomanjo. They saw the Will shortly before my master left on his mission.” Ruthor spoke clearly, so there could be no misunderstanding.
“Both of them can read?” The Comide wanted to be precise on this, for it could prove a sticking point to the Church.
“Yes; the Fre better than the knight, but both knew what they witnessed,” Ruthor said, and added, “My master was most careful to fulfill all the requirements of the Church.”
“And do you know where that Will is to be found?” the Comide asked, doing his best not to demand it.
“Yes, I do.” He reverenced the Comide.
The Comide waited a short while, saying nothing. Finally he spoke. “Well? Where is it, then?”
Ruthor did not answer directly. “May I send for some refreshment for you? We have fresh bread and some excellent wine.” He lowered his head in a show of respect. “On behalf of my master.”
It was minimal hospitality for one of such high rank; the Comide nodded; to refuse the offer once it had been made would be an intolerable insult. “Out of respect for your master, I accept.”
“On his behalf, I thank you for your courtesy,” said Ruthor, and clapped his hands for a servant.
“Is it true that Germanno keeps no slaves?” the Comide asked, as if he could not bring himself to believe such rumors.
“It is,” Ruthor said, and issued a series of orders to the servants who came to the door; they took care not to look at the Comide.
The Comide shook his head. “Most unusual. But he
is
foreign, is he not?” He chose one of the Moorish chairs and sat down. “Is it also true he gave a dowry to a young woman not of his blood?”
Ruthor could not keep from smiling at this observation. “That is also true,” he said, thinking to himself that it was accurate in the sense the Comide intended as well as in the sense Germanno would mean it. “Your wine and bread will be brought to you directly.”
“Very good,” said the Comide, who was not in the habit of talking with servants. “While I wait, you may fetch the Will.”
“Now that, I am afraid, is a difficulty,” Ruthor said diffidently. When the Comide of Meior Pandexa looked up sharply, he added, “I offer neither you nor the King any insult when I tell you that my master ordered me to deliver the Will to the King when he—that is my master—has not sent word to anyone for a year, for he has stipulated that he is to be regarded as among the living until a full year has passed. That would mean that in the first week of next August, I will carry the Will to Idelfonzuz myself, if there has been no message from my master in the meantime.”
“That is a most unusual arrangement,” the Comide said, his manner making it clear he did not approve.
“Perhaps, but it is what my master required of me.” He made another reverence.
“But the King has other demands,” the Comide said as if mentioning Idelfonzuz would change Ruthor’s mind. “Should you not obey the King in the absence of your master?”
“Were I to betray my master’s command, how could the King repose any confidence in anything I do?” Ruthor countered.
The Comide sat very straight. “You will not give it to me now?”
“Alas,” said Ruthor. “I have pledged my Word to my master and I am bound by it, as you are by your oaths.”
Realizing that they had reached an impasse, the Comide rose from the chair and began to pace. “I have my duty to discharge,” he said as he went down the room.
“As I have mine,” Ruthor replied.
“But surely your master, who serves the King, will allow his orders to be superseded by the King’s,” the Comide suggested, at pains not to look directly at Ruthor as he did his best to establish his own authority.
“It may be that he would: he did not so instruct me,” said Ruthor.
“But
he is gone
!” the Comide exclaimed. “There has been no word from him for months. No one expects him to return.”
“That may be, but I must abide by his orders whether he returns or not,” said Ruthor, noticing out of the corner of his eye that the servants were returning with the bread and wine for the Comide. “If you will be seated again, Comide, I may have the honor of providing you with refreshment in my master’s name.”
The Comide gestured his exasperation, but he sat down again, and waited while the servants brought a table to him and put down the tray. “New butter as well as new bread. I hope your master would approve such profligacy.”
“For the sake of guests, my master has instructed me to receive them as his equals.” Ruthor stepped back so that the Comide could eat in the appropriate isolation.
“You may stand in the doorway,” the Comide said magnanimously. “There are matters we still must discuss.”
Ruthor did not sigh, although it was an effort not to. “As you wish,” he said to the Comide in a humble manner.
“You see, I must inform the King that you have not been willing to do as he requires, and that will go against your master.” He broke off a piece of bread, spread it thickly with butter and popped it into his mouth.
“If my master does not return, how can that be?” Ruthor asked as politely as he could.
“The Will could be set aside,” the Comide suggested. “Such things have happened before”
“No doubt,” Ruthor said. “Yet more servants have suffered at the will of their masters than at the will of the King.”
“Are you being impudent?” The Comide paused in the act of pouring wine into the silver cup the servants had brought.
“I am trying to serve my master,” Ruthor said.
“Exactly. Your master would not want you to refuse the King,” the Comide said as if Ruthor were a bit simple. “If you will not do as the King has ordered—”
“—it will discredit my master.” Ruthor finished for him. “I understood that.”
“You will do as Idelfonzuz demands?” The Comide lifted his cup to drink.
“I do not know that I can. Were my master Spanish, there would be no doubt what I must do; he is from the Carpathians, and his title is an ancient one in that land.” He ducked his head in apology.
“That cuts both ways,” the Comide pointed out. “If Germanno were Spanish, he would be assured of the King’s protection. As it is . . .” He left his thought unfinished.
“In August I will gladly surrender the Will,” Ruthor said, taking care not to give the guest any reason to be affronted.
“Incidentally, the wine is very good,” the Comide remarked, then said, “I do not want to bring unwelcome news to Idelfonzuz.”
“Nor do I wish to give any such,” Ruthor said.
“In August, the King will be on campaign, driving back the Moors from the borders of Aragon. He will be within the walls of Zaraguza, with men in the field to command. He will not want to stop his fighting to send to Toledom for a Will.” He dipped the bread in the wine and ate it.
Now Ruthor understood what was being required of him. “I can make a generous contribution to the costs of the fighting on my master’s behalf. This would be as a sign of my master’s service to the King. He left me gold enough to cover any such obligations, and his authorization, permitting me to act in his stead without the need to obtain the endorsements of others.” He made a reverence once more. “That way the King and my master are attended to without slights to anyone.”
“What an extraordinary arrangement, to leave gold in the hands of servants,” marveled the Comide.
“Given the nature of his mission, he thought it best that I be able to act for him when the occasion required it,” said Ruthor modestly.
The Comide considered this, munching a bit of the bread as he did. “I could explain to the King, try to persuade him to let this most remarkable arrangement stand—if there was gold enough to assure him of your master’s devotion.”
“No doubt,” Ruthor said, keeping the amusement from his voice. “I will arrange for two bags of gold to be delivered to the King, and half a wallet for you, for your efforts, to show the appreciation of my master.” It was the only way to be sure Idelfonzuz received the full amount, Ruthor knew; he was also certain that this amount was at least double what Idelfonzuz had hoped for.
“Two bags of gold.” The Comide almost choked on his bread; he recovered himself. “A handsome donation.”
“My master would do no less were he here to tend to it himself,” Ruthor said. He paused. “Will that suffice?”
The Comide swallowed hard. “For now, I am certain it will.” He topped off the wine in his cup and drank it down hastily. “Well, you have done credit to your master. When shall I tell the King the donation will arrive?”
“Tomorrow morning after Mass,” Ruthor answered. “If it does not, tell the King he may send armed men to claim it.”
“Be sure I will,” said the Comide, and got to his feet. “The King does not like to wait upon the whims of others.”
“Certainly not,” said Ruthor. “I will prepare the gold tonight. You may inform the King of what has been done in my master’s name.”
“That I will.” He paused and studied Ruthor’s face. “I have heard you are from Gadiz.”
“That is so.” Ruthor answered, not adding that when he had left his family for Roma, Nero’s reign was coming to an end.
“You have not the look of it,” said the Comide.
“So I have been told,” Ruthor responded.
The Comide waited, as if considering something more, then said, “I will tell the King what you are providing him.”
“Yes; so you have assured me,” Ruthor said, reverencing the Comide. “On behalf of my master, I express his gratitude.”
“Good,” said the Comide, and abruptly left the hall; he sauntered down the gallery, obviously well-pleased with himself.
Ruthor watched him go with a knowing look in his eye, an expression that, had the Comide seen it, might have lessened his satisfaction in accomplishing his task, for this was the third time Idelfonzuz had dispatched one of his courtiers to demand money—however indirectly—from Germanno. He was fairly certain the Comide would not be the last. With a sigh he took up the tray with the last of the bread and the tub of butter on it and carried it down to the kitchen, where he handed it to the scullion who had been squatting by the massive hearth where a side of pork turned on a spit, filling the room with the aroma of roasting meat.
The senior cook, a massive fellow with muscular forearms and a broad belly, came up to Ruthor, his manner uneasy. “There is trouble,” he said.
Ruthor chuckled. “Not from that fellow. Idelfonzuz does not want to take all the money at once, he would rather ask for it in discrete portions.”
“It’s not the courtier,” the cook said, his voice dropping. “There is a leper in the garden.” He covered his mouth with his hand as if to show he wanted no part of this.”
“What are you saying?” Ruthor asked.
“He come last night, very late. I cannot think how he was admitted; the guards turn lepers back at the gates, except on the night of the Mass of the Nativity.” He crossed himself. “What are we to do?”
“I suppose I should go see for myself,” Ruthor said, feeling exhausted suddenly, as if the long months of waiting had put all their weight on him at once.
“Do not touch him. If you touch him, you will be a leper, too,” the cook warned him nervously.
“I will be careful,” Ruthor assured him as he went out into the twilit garden. He paused near the terrace behind the house, listening for the leper’s clapper. When he heard nothing, he made his way toward the small stone cabin near the walls where seeds and supplies were kept. He had almost reached the narrow doorway when he heard the clapper. Pausing, he wondered how he would be able to get the leper out of the cabin, for he could not let it be known that one so afflicted was living in the garden. When the clapper sounded again, he called out, “Who is there?” and felt foolish for asking.
An arm swathed in the linen wrappings that marked leprosy motioned him to come nearer.
Ruthor sighed in annoyance. “That would not be prudent,” he said.
The arm beckoned again, but nothing was said.
“Tell me what you want.” Ruthor took a simple step nearer the cabin, hoping that none of the kitchen staff was watching.
“Another chest of my native earth to sleep on,” said Germanno, and stepped out of the door. He wore the rough woollen habit of lepers over the bandages; what Ruthor could see of his face revealed patches of scraped skin and healing wounds.
“Oh!” Ruthor exclaimed, gladness wiping the austerity from his countenance. “Oh, my master. You are back.”
Germanno held up his hand. “No, I am not. A leper has come, and that leper will soon depart—”
“But you are no leper. Disease cannot touch you,” Ruthor said, his enthusiasm barely contained. “You have returned.”
“No,” Germanno repeated. “The Comide Ragoczy is still missing, and will continue to be so.” He gave Ruthor a serious stare, his compelling eyes stilling the exuberance of his old friend.
“What is the matter? Has there been some treachery?” Ruthor looked about as if belatedly concerned about spies.
“Nothing out of the usual,” Germanno said, “but it is just as well that I am gone.”
Ruthor accepted this. “Did you fail to get the King what he wanted? Do you fear his anger?”
Germanno’s fine brows flicked together. “No. He had what he wanted from me, and money as well. How much more direct it was when the Gardingi simply demanded twenty horses from me. Gold was not so important then. Now, without gold a war is impossible.”
“Do you think the King will claim all you own?” Ruthor was alarmed at the prospect.
“I doubt it. However, that was not the reason I have dropped from sight.” He indicated the low stool by the bed of sweet herbs. “Sit down. The cook will be able to see you, and he will know you are not touching me.”
“As you wish,” said Ruthor, and sank onto the marble stool, paying no heed to how cold the stone was.
It took Germanno a little time to gather his thoughts to speak. “I found Ximene and her tribe still in their old region. There were more of them.”
“Not surprising,” said Ruthor. “You did not think she would refrain from making more, did you?”
“I hoped she would learn,” said Germanno heavily. “The people—the living—have grown tired of her predations, and they have struck back. With the war going on around them, the battles serve to cover what they do.” He fell silent, thinking back to the fires. “They know to break our spines, to burn us, to cut off our heads. And they are better at recognizing us.”