Prologue: The Father

In predawn grayness, Juan Salazar crawled through short, wet grass and at times over wide smooth stone facings. The faint smell of a campfire and cooked meat hung in the air, lamb he believed, from last night’s meal. Juan moved up an incline toward the hill’s crest. He could barely see forms of men on each side, as they advanced with him in a slowly constricting ring around the camp, which scouts reported was just below the ridge ahead.

His skin was clammy and he stank from sweat absorbing in the padded shirt beneath his chainmail. Though it was cool, his brow dripped from effort. To give his arms and hands freedom, he’d slung his long, tapered shield across his back. He’d rotated his sword belt to the left so the hilt rested in the small of his back. The scabbard dragged between his legs but to muffle any scraping noise he’d tied a rag around its tip. Still his movement was far from silent. A horse neighed from the thieves’ camp over the hill. Juan froze as did his companions stretching to either side. When the feared alarm did not follow, he and his companions crept on.

Juan winced as he lowered his right knee, irritating again numerous small cuts and abrasions crawling had caused. No matter, he thought. Soon the signal would come; he’d be running with his fellow men-at-arms and in the rush of adrenalin he’d give no thought to the small annoyance at his knee. It would heal.

Just before the hill’s crest, to his relief and with the others, he stood full upright, stretched and flexed his cramped aching muscles. Juan checked the chinstrap to his simple domed helmet, pulled his shield forward, shoved his left forearm through its strap and grasped the wooden grip near the shield’s edge. He tightened the forearm strap then rotated his sword belt to its proper place and slowly eased his gray steel, double-edged sword from its scabbard. Juan rotated his shoulders again, raised and lowered his arms, repeatedly arched his back, pumped his legs, and swayed on the balls of his feet. His muscles loosened. More light suffused the land and Juan could more clearly see men to either side.

Juan Salazar was a man-at-arms for Miguel, Count of Monzon, whose holdings were nearly the smallest in the kingdom. His family had held the land from the Kings of Leon for three generations. Since the count had children, the land would be in the family for at least one more. Of late, Count Miguel and several other nobles in the northeastern reaches of Leon were vexed by lawless men who took with impunity from flocks, granaries, and wares. Recently they had even forced themselves on two peasant women. Since local nobles were not powerful men with large retinues, acting independently they were unable to bring the miscreants to justice, but collectively they might. Three nobles agreed to pool resources. Each contributed men; Juan Salazar among them, under the command of Sir Manfredo Gutierrez, a competent knight from Monzon’s small household.

For days, Sir Manfredo and his men tracked the outlaws. Finally, they had drawn near and discovered their camp. The previous evening, Manfredo had drawn a simple diagram in the dirt and briefed his men for a dawn attack. The men ate a cold meal and rested, but no one slept. After midnight they left their horses in the care of two men and moved to within a thousand paces of the thieves. Then, cautiously they spread into positions. A blocking force of ten was established in the most likely avenue of flight; the others moved quietly and slowly up crescent-shaped high ground above the camp. As dawn was just beginning to break and the blocking force situated, Juan and twenty-eight others stood ready.

Fredrico, the men called him Rico, sat hugging his knees. He was only marginally disappointed that he’d been given the watch. Though he missed the sleep, something was appealing about the night and the feeling of near isolation; alone with his private thoughts Rico pondered the mysteries of life and nature, relived his yesterdays and speculated on his tomorrows. The stillness, the stars and darkness were awesome, somehow liberating and spiritual, unlike the days which were bright, not mysterious, and during which he was distracted by menial tasks and the business of life. Alone in the night Rico felt unified, merged with something great and comforting.

Periodically he leaned back against a waist-high rock and looked down into the camp where his companions slept. Features were emerging from night’s darkness. The shapes of men scattered round the black smudge of last night’s fire were increasingly distinct. He pulled his cloak closely around his slender frame. Soon he would go to the camp below and start the morning fire. Rico yawned. He was tired of his horse, of the near endless riding, and hoped they would not travel this day. It would be nice, though in a small way dangerous, to stay in one place for at least a few days. If they did, he’d hike into the surrounding ruggedly beautiful green mountains.

Rico, like most sentinels was lost in private thought and only partly vigilant, but he was not too lost to hear a short, low whistle. For a moment he wondered if he’d imagined. In his peripheral vision forms crested the hill across and moved down toward the camp. Senses alert, Rico focused. He was just beginning to stand when he heard movement on the hill behind him. He halted, settled back against his rock, lowered himself, and swiveled to look. Not twenty yards away, a line of five men came over the ridge behind him and broke into a trot. He turned the other way; more men came. Rico’s mind reeled. If he shouted warning, which was his chief responsibility, he would expose himself. Although his sword was at hand, his mail shirt and his shield were next to his saddle in camp. If he alerted his companions, he would die or be captured. Rico pondered for only a moment. He pulled his cloak closer around him, buried his face in his knees, and made himself small. To Rico’s relief, the men passed. For a short while sentinel Rico became a spectator. Soon and feeling a mixture of guilt and relief which would revisit him all his days, he ran back over the hill’s crest, away from the camp; Rico disappeared into the countryside.

Sir Manfredo broke into a run as did his men, but to preserve an element of surprise and as instructed by Manfredo, no one roared a war cry. They just swept down. Soon light-sleepers in the camp heard and were roused. As Manfredo’s men drew near, the rustle of movement and clank or slap of scabbard against mail became increasing discernable. “What? What goes here?” spoke one man in raised voice on the furthest perimeter from the fire pit. He then sat bolt upright and blinked as he gazed in the direction of the noises.

“Up! Up! Get up! Men are here! We are attacked!” he screamed. Though speed varied with comprehension and the fog of sleep, the bandits began throwing off night wraps and scrabbling for arms.

More quickly than one might have expected, their leader Magnus, a big man, sprang to his feet. He had no time to pull on his mail but grabbed his shield, slipped it onto his arm, yanked his sword from its scabbard, and whirled to face the attackers. By this time, the fastest of Sir Manfredo’s men were at the farthest ring of the thieves. Magnus glanced in the direction of the only escape, but eighty paces away in the pale dawn light he saw more armored men, swords drawn, moving toward the camp. In an instant, Magnus knew that today he must die. The knowledge was liberating; it made him fearless. He smiled faintly and bellowed a scream as he faced the closest attackers. The noise was unintelligible except in the most primordial way, a sound to cause hair to stand, to instill fear, even panic. But Sir Manfredo and his men-at-arms were experienced. They did not turn aside and, with a great clash of shield and sword, collapsed into the bandits.

The attackers had a clear advantage not only in numbers and surprise, but each of Manfredo’s men wore mail and was otherwise fully armored, which increased the weight of men by thirty or more pounds. When shields collided, this added weight often forced bandits back or off balance. In a few instances bandits went sprawling. If a man fell, especially one without chainmail, hacking blades and thrusting points inflicted severe wounds. Though Magnus’ men were unencumbered by mail and therefore more nimble, they were relatively unprotected. They landed blows, but these were usually absorbed by mail and the padded shirts beneath. Such was not the case for the bandits; strokes and thrusts not deflected caused injury. Most received wounds, sometimes repeatedly, until they went down or surrendered.

Manfredo’s blocking force closed and joined the short-lived fight. Amid shouts, curses, pleas for mercy, and the clanging weapons, amid groans and gasps from the injured, grunts from exertion, and satisfying roars of mastery, Manfredo’s men dominated the outlaws. Within five minutes, all were captive, down from wounds, or dead. Magnus was badly injured and lay on the ground. Blood ran from deep punctures in his left side and another in his abdomen. He also had sustained hideous slicing injuries, which opened the muscles on his sword arm and on his right thigh. His chest heaved from exertion as he looked up at the stranger over him.

“You have us. But you sneak at night. It is not a man’s way. You gain no honor this day,” he hissed between clenched teeth.

Sir Manfredo looked down on the...