Chapter Four - ...but their slopes are sharp as daggers
Chapter Four
...but their slopes are sharp as daggers
23 October, 1066
The Galician Marches, León
The hound was hunting wolves. He had found their trace yesterday, but the wolves were tricky little things and had splintered their pack once they learned that he had found their sent. Now half of the pack was headed north, and the other half south and the wolves most likely hoped that he would head after one splinter – only to be taken in the rear by the other half. The hound could of course continue onwards and try to sever the head of the pack once they united to assault him, but such an endeavour was risky at best. The wolves would never attack unless they thought they could take him unawares, and the hound had learned a long time ago that to make oneself seem exposed, one had to expose himself. That was a risk he could not take lightly, his king had made that much clear.
“My Lord!” Flaín's thoughts were interrupted by the voice of Lope, his new second-in-command since Ramiro had gone with Alfonso to Zamora. Lope was a young noble of some insignificant line holding but a shard of land in the Asturian hinterlands, and as such he had realized he stood more to gain by leaving his fathers hall to serve the king. Many younger sons appeared such at the Towers, eager to please and even more eager for blood and glory. In Spain there was few paths unbloodied, if a man wished to grow beyond his birth.
“My Lord Flaín, give me half of the men and I shall take down one group of brigands as you lay the other half to rest.” Flaín contemplated the idea for a short moment, then shook his head. No, none of the men truly knew the land around here, empty and wild as it were. Adding to the fact that Arias group seemed to have swelled with another hundred men, at least from the abandoned fire-pits they'd found, the king's forces numerical advantage was little to none even if they would face Arias in a regular battle. And by now de Formeselle surely had caught himself a dozen or so hunters and woodsmen, and with their aid he could slip around any force among these hills with ease. His plan might even be just that, to separate them and face them on his terms. No, dividing their force would be playing right into their foes hands.
Lope looked eagerly at him.
He has hungry eyes, this one. The new second seemed a descent enough fellow, but his inexperience and impatience was gnarling Flaín's nerves. Ramiro was a solid man, a soldier first and in this not unlike Flaín himself, if not but for that foul mouth of his. With Ramiro, Flaín would have known that the man wouldn't do anything foolish. Lope, on the other hand, wanted to distinguish himself.
Might be that he hopes to gain de Formeselle's lands after this. Flaín chuckled at that. Lope wouldn't find much joy in his new holding if that came to pass. But no, giving Lope command to head after half of the rebels would be foolish beyond belief, Flaín decided.
The realms of the Iberian peninsula upon the death of Fernando I, after which his realm was divided among his sons as well as his tributary Moorish states with the Aftasids of Badajoz paying tribute to Galicia, the Dhunnunids of Toledo to Alfonso, and the Huddids of Zaragoza and Catalayud to Sancho. Lands of the Jimenez dynasty highlighted in white.
“No, tell the men we are continuing west.” Lope looked disappointed, but a moment later he turned around his horse, riding towards the worm of soldiers that was slithering through the hill. A plan had formulated in Flaín's mind, a risky plan – too risky for Flaín's taste under normal circumstances but Alfonso had told him it was of utter importance that Arias was not left to join García unblooded.
“If Urraca´s henchmen join their strength with my brother, García will be able to match our strength in the field. Besides, an early victory will wet our men's mouths.” The king had given his orders, and the hound obeyed. He had asked permission to take the head of Arias, to finally settle the score with that man and his line, once and for all. The boon had been given and now the hound would hunt no longer.
Aye, brothers, sisters and sweet mother. Soon you shall rest easy. The time of the kill was coming fast.
The soldiers marched on westwards.
Over that hill and then one more... Flaín drew a deep breath, watching the land and trying to see if anything had changed since he'd been here last. The hills still gaped empty, grass growing high without a single herd grazing. The smallfolk had never returned, not even now. That saddened him somewhat, but in an odd sort of way it seemed fitting that a land that had seen so much death would lay empty.
And when I'm gone, this will be our tomb, and the walls we once raised our headstones. The thought was not as bitter as it had been. His king had given him purpose, something Flaín once had thought he'd never have. And if Alfonso became the king he had been born to be, and Flaín meant to see that he would, then his ancestors might smile upon him yet.
As they reached the top of the hill he could see the the jagged top of the keep. Parts of the crenellations seemed to have fallen down since his last visit. Fifteen long years had passed since then, and the stonework had been ill kept even when his father still lived, but the walls would still be standing. Flaín smiled as he remembered that night, a grim smile not unfamiliar to his face. He still dreamed of the fire sometimes, hearing the scream of men as they battered their hands bloody against barred doors and Flaín smiling, ever smiling. He was not a cruel man. That night had been a night of justice, justice worthy of a king, not cruelty. Even though, this place was not one he remembered fondly, although he knew he should. Enough blood could wash away even the sweetest of memories – but maybe, just maybe, blood could also restore what had once been soiled.
A few hours later, when a hundred men had made camp what had once been a well kept courtyard, now overgrown with weeds, Flaín found himself standing at the gate of what had once been his home. A yellow banner soared above him, not the banner his father had flown. Flaín had laid the wolves of Osorio aside when he swore his sword to Alfonso.
“If all men were as steadfast as my fathers hounds, he would conquer the world, he says.” The pale face of a boy who rarely spent any time in the sun looked up at him, eyes like dark pools searching his soul.
“Are you a wolf, or a dog?” Flaín looked up at his banner.
But even a dog wants his bloodprice taken, my king, and Flaín de Osorio will soon have his fill. Soon.
The traditional shield of House Osorio (Left) and the shield of Flaín de Osorio (Right)
