EIGHTEEN
Fernando and Crespin were waiting for them when they rode up the path to the villa, nearly two weeks after the bloody battle at Castillo del Ferral. Ramiro leaped out of his saddle and walked, stiff-legged, past the pair and into the house. Lazare got down from his horse much more slowly, wincing at the pain such motion caused in his injured hip. Behind him, Miguel and Hernando dismounted much more readily and Miguel took the reins to his horse after Lazare got his footing on the ground.
“It’s a boy,” Crespin said as Lazare painfully made his way across the lane. “The mother is doing well.”
Lazare smiled for the first time since he had killed a man. The motion of his lips felt strange at first, and he was sure it looked more like a grimace than a real smile, but Crespin seemed to understand. Fernando excused himself and went to help the other knights with the horses.
“Ruy?” Crespin asked.
Lazare shook his head, his smile fading. “We won,” he said. “Miramamolin was unprepared. It was a rout. Nearly two—” He stopped. The number of dead didn’t matter. Too many, he thought. Too many on both sides. “Amairic was there,” he said. “The battle was barely over and he was shouting about the supremacy of Rome against the infidels.” He shook his head. “Iberia, Constantinople, the Cathars in Toulouse. He saw them all as heretics. Rome won, and would continue to win. That was all he cared about.”
“But La Mancha was saved. Toledo too,” Crespin said. “That is all that matters right now. They defended their homes and their way of life. It is a good victory.”
“Aye,” Lazare sighed.
The door of the villa opened and Ramiro wandered out, a bundle of cloth in his arms. He wore a bemused expression, the scarred corner of his mouth struggling to turn up. Crespin saw what he was carrying, and he smiled broadly enough for both of them. There were tears in Ramiro’s eyes as he raised the bundle so that Lazare could see the tiny face nestled within. “It’s a boy,” Ramiro said.
“He’s beautiful,” Lazare said, tears marring his vision. The boy seemed to dance on a series of watery bubbles.
“I am a father,” Ramiro said. He looked at Lazare, and through a veil of tears, Lazare saw some of the ferocious madness that was the Beast in Ramiro’s eyes. “I am not a soldier anymore,” Ramiro said. “I am not a knight. Nor a monster. Nor a murderer. I am just a father. That is the only way I want to be remembered by my son.”
Lazare swiped away his own tears. “A worthy goal,” he said, his voice cracking. “A worthy goal. Have you given him a name yet?”
“Eleázar Ramirez de Calatrava,” Ramiro said without hesitation.
“Eleázar? That is…” Lazare glanced at Crespin who seemed as stunned as he was. “Why…why that name?”
Cradling his son in one arm, Ramiro reached out and laid his hand on Lazare’s shoulder. “You’re part of my family,” he said.
“No,” Lazare said. “I…I can’t…That is—”
“That is his name,” Ramiro insisted. “Iberia had touched you, Lazare. It is just that you be remembered here as well.”
“I…” Lazare stuttered to a stop. Swallowing the lump in his heart and nodding, he accepted Ramiro’s decision. “I am honored. Deeply.”
“He will be a good legacy,” Ramiro said proudly. “For both of us.”