Winter 1522
The branches of the olive tree bristled in the dawn sky as Lucas peak up beyond the hooded brim of his fathers umber brown wool cloak. To an early morning passerby on their way to cross the Twelve Arches Bridge, he easily could’ve been mistaken as a Franciscan as he sat propped up asleep against the twisting trunk of the tree. The bark leaving impressions upon his skin.
Only a few unfamiliar features might have caught an observant eye from a passerby. First, the chestnut sullen rouncey tethered to one of the olive tree’s thick branches that stood grazing on the remainder of an open bag of grain by Lucas’s side, a leather saddle bag which lied just to the horse’s side. Franciscans usually didn’t own horses, taking rather the oath of their founder to renounce all possessions and to beg their way on pilgrimage travels. Second, the coal from an ash filled campfire at Lucas’s feet was still sending up wisps of smoke from the night before, testifying to Lucas’s overnight forbearance under the tree. A local would’ve easily known that a roofed place to sleep for a hermit, such as his appearance gave off, lied just beyond these hills at San Juan de Ortega, right at the entrance to the bridgeway. The hermitage was named after the saint whom, hundreds of years earlier, was known to have constructed bridges along many of the Camino routes such as these.
Third, if the horse and the campsite didn’t perk one’s curiosity, then the next observation surely would’ve sent prickles up the hairs on their sleeves. That would be, the noticeable bow and arrow which sat stretched and nocked on Lucas’s lap. An obvious warning sign should any one come too close to challenge this cloaked man in the morning dawn light.
. . .
It had been a month and a half since Lucas left the granite walls of the Roman Château. Since then, the long days in the saddle had worn on him wearingly. His back ached as he rested somberly against the trunk’s spine. He was slumped over, but finally now resting safely in the quiet Spanish countryside.
His plan had worked and he was able to pass off as a young French hunter in Roncul, Roncevaux, and beyond.
As he burst into the Roman Château and his superior’s quarters on that fateful mid December night, a plan had only but started to form in his mind.
“I could pass as a local uneducated Frenchman looking for work as a sentry in the militia. The Count of Foix and Bigorre’s soldiers surely must be looking for more young men to join the fight.”
As he explained the thought to his superior, a resolve seemed fixed in Lucas’s mind.
“Do you think they would buy it?”
His superior pondered.
“Could you report on your findings? Their numbers at each of the forts and their dispersed encampments? Right before the passes closed we received word that Castilian reinforcements are coming from the west. They’re planning to push from Pamplona to take Amaiur by summer. But they aren’t sure exactly the numbers we are up against here in the Pyrenees. They are asking us to hold out till news comes along.”
Suddenly a door of opportunity had started to open before Lucas’s eyes.
“My French is good enough. And with my skills as a common archer . . . I could work my way up through the winter passes. If worse comes to worse and I’m snuffed out, I can flee to the forests to survive and continue to work my way northward before any assuming warning signs. A horse along with my father’s cloak should give me enough of a chance to blend in amongst many of the local men the countryside.”
Assurance began to rest on his superior’s mind.
“We have enough here to hold us down till summer, but the men are growing restless every minute. Spring may bring with it our discovery, and I can’t risk a large military campaign. These granite walls can hold us for a time, and we’ve already begun stockpiling the town’s resources, but a messenger to propose our predicament might just be what saves us from eventual siege, conquer, and imprisonment. That is, if you could advocate our cause in Pamplona along with any intelligence you gather behind enemy lines.”
“I’d have to work northward, and pass through the French held Saint Jean Pied de Port. But I’m sure I could make it to Pamplona in over a month’s time.” Lucas replied.
“You’ll need to relinquish your gear, your armor, and your knights dagger. Keep your bow, it’s already an unfamiliar sight for our people, and you can use it to hunt for game. You’ll have to travel light, but we’ll give you a rouncey from one of the local stables, along with some provisions to get you by.”
His superior’s instructions sang like music to Lucas’s ears.
“And after I report in Pamplona . . . ?" Lucas stammered off the question with a hopeful obedience.
“Then, you can follow the old Camino de Frances route to Burgos, advocate again for our cause there, and send word of your arrival to Valladolid. If any of your letters arrived home and your father’s request was sent and has held any sway in the Castilian court, you may then return home to grieve with your family upon news of the court’s orders. You’ll be relinquished of your duties here, but paying us a great chance for survival. Please keep us in your prayers at La Misa.”
And so Lucas began the great escapade in the the darkness of the north, all for a chance to arrive back at the once remembered light of home.
Within two weeks, and just after Christmas, Lucas began on his way, northward through French lines, grateful for his inherited striking resemblance to the people of these mountains. His mother’s teachings and father’s training ever racing through his mind. His father’s cloak wading in and out of the trees, his bow strung across his shoulder, his leather winter boots dangling from the stirrups.
Suddenly, Lucas felt like the red deer in the Cirque de Gavarnie walking backwards upon the fall morning trail and creaking its knees again. Alive, still far from the hopelessness of war’s arrow strike, far from the pool of blood at the end of the trail. Perhaps, unlike the deer he could stay own his life from war’s ravishing. Perhaps, he could wake up again to a new morning about to begin. Yet to step into a sun kist dangerous valley, yet to meet an inevitable end . . .
“I’ll be at Aranda de Duero by March,” was the thought which rested upon Lucas’s mind.
As he left the men behind and trotted isolated through enemy entrenched forests. The men’s morale weighed heavily on his mind. His leaving had spurred within them a silent hope amidst wary circumstances. While spirits were up in their daily runs and activities, the inevitable reality weighed silently at night amidst the Château’s winter drawn walls. This was many of the men’s first Christmas away from their families. It brought with it homesickness, sleepless nights, and occasional outbursts of reluctant obedience. They were looking for sure for a fight, but one they knew they could win. The last thing they wanted was orders to hole up and hunker down unspent. Spring, they knew, could bring with it some encroaching uncertainty. So, it happened that news of Lucas’s daring espionage brought with it much parody for their adversaries.
The Christ child had disguised his Divinity, breaking into his enemy’s fortress. Heaven came to death ridden earth in the form of a babe, and here was one their own, on a ghastly French escapade! That was enough to give confidence to the men of their company’s participation of Iberia’s grand campaign. A fighting Christmas tale to tell one day when they grew older and grayer in age.
The forests thickened as Lucas headed on horseback north from Lourdes. Snow, the purity of form and intent, weighed heavy on the pine tree branches across the scattered trail. He’d have to make camp the first night in the cold December darkened night. What lay in front of him, sprinkled past trees and branches, was unknown French encampments. War and his potential discovery twisted and turned Lucas’s stomach like the branches before him. His survival could easily be torn by utter disarray.
The later nights of the month brought with them little moonlight. He looked up. Here, at this altitude, he could see the stars in their clearest array. What lay above in still silence was chaotic order at its finest.
His mother’s bedtime words of scripture whispered softly from memories in the starlight.
“He determines the number of the stars, he gives to all of them their names. Great is our LORD, and abundant in power; his understanding is beyond measure.”
“What is man that thou art mindful of him, and the son of man that thou dost care for him?”
Lucas then let forth his first prayer since the fall night when the fateful news of his mother fell upon him.
“God, you see my aim and my end. Prepare my path before me. Keep me safe through the dark unknown of this next month’s journey. Give me stars and guidepost to navigate the darkness.”
The horse continued to trot through the snow covered mountain forests as Lucas sat silently with his ears pricked and eyes discerning the trees for any movement in the night.
. . .
“Hey you! You wouldn’t happen to have anything to eat?”
Lucas woke up hastily from his olive tree morning napping respite.
Sitting against the olive tree trunk he clambered for his bow, drawing back its taut string weight.
“Woah! Woah! No worries soldier, I’m not hear to cause you any trouble.” The man raising his left arm and opening his palm in assurance replied.
“Huh?” Lucas replied confused, piecing together the situation before him.
“How do you know I’m a solider?”
“Vestri Tabernus” “Your Boots . . . “ The man, pointing, replied to Lucas in Latin.
Lucas then proceeded to quickly wipe the haze off of his sleepily crusted eyes. Looking intently, the man before him came into clearer view.
He was a young man, perhaps in his young thirties, dressed in nobleman attire. His chin was sharp and nose slightly arched and pointed. His hairline had started to fade back and recede, and his beard hugged thinly around his jaw line. Sitting on a mule, he had a knights sword sheathed to his left side. Lucas discerned a subtle Basque ascent in his Latin reply.
Then he noticed what lay on the man’s left foot facing him and resting in the stirrup of the saddle . . . similar boots.
“You too are a soldier? What are you doing out here on your own far from Navarre’s lines?” Lucas frustratingly replied.
“I could very much ask the same of you!” The man fired back in a snappy and witty reply.
“Here, give me a hand.” The man extended out his left hand to Lucas from his mule’s saddle.
Lucas, hesitating, looked sharply into the man’s discerning brown eyes. Reluctantly, he got up and turned briefly to rest his bow along the olive tree trunk. He pulled down his brown hood, and then walked steadily up to the man. Grasping his hand, the man swung his right leg carefully up and around. Balancing himself and holding tightly onto the saddle with his right hand, he dropped his right leg down, careful to not put on it too much weight. Pressing his left hand down onto Lucas’s firm grip, he released his left foot from the stirrup and put on it his full body’s weight.
Grabbing a cane strapped to the horses side, the man began walking towards the olive tree with a limped gait. Turning and sitting down beside the olive tree, he then began stoking the fire’s coals with his cane.
“Well? Are you going to join me? Or are you going to wallow in my company?” The man insisted upon Lucas.
“Where are you heading towards?” Lucas inquired, seeing the man was in no rush.
“In the long run . . . Jerusalem, but by days end . . . Logroño.” The man replied.
Logroño, the capital of La Rioja was just beyond this Spansish countryside.
“And you?” He prompted Lucas while blowing fresh air onto the fire. The mab then turned to his side to reach for some small kindling of wind broken sticks sitting beside the olive tree to begin again the fire’s flame.
“Burgos, on orders . . . and then home.” Lucas replied, sure to assure this fellow soldier that he wasn’t a run a away, but also wary to reveal any more about his final destination.
“And home would be?” The man again prompted.
Lucas sure of his stance held silently true, saying nothing more.
"Such resolve from a young man here in the Spanish countryside. Let’s start then with some trust shall we?” The man stammered on.
His cane poked and prodded the smoldering coals as much as his words did to Lucas. Suddenly, a flame sprung into the campfire’s ash filled heap.
The man, seemingly content and satisfied, looked up again at Lucas, his eyes reading and seeing something written behind Lucas’s face.
“I tell what ‘solider who is off to Burgos on orders,’ and who also has a pack horse and bow in tow, and leather boots of a soldier and nobleman such as me. I’ll start with trust, you can follow, and perhaps by the end we can leave on our ways having called this a memorable conversation.”
The man then extended his hand to Lucas again, but this time in the form of introduction.
“My name is Iñigo López de Loyola! And who might I be speaking to?”
Edgar Thomas Ainger Wigram / The Gorge of Pancorvo / 1906 / Photocopy / WikiMedia Commons / Public Domain