Free 1632 by Eric Flint

the attention of Tilly’s men to himself, away from the carriage. His men in the farmhouse would have a clear angle of fire.
     
    The mercenaries charging toward the farmhouse were on the other side of the carriage. Rebecca could hear them but not see them. All she could see was the hidalgo, facing at an angle away from her.
     
    In the battle which followed, she watched nothing else. Her eyes were fixed to a tall man in a farmyard, standing still, in a ruffled white blouse and black trousers. A humble setting, and there was something odd about his boots. But Rebecca did not care. Samuel ibn Nagrela, reciting Hebrew poetry to the Muslim army he led to victory at the Battle of Alfuente, would have been proud of that footwear. So, at least, thought a young woman raised in the legends of Sepharad.
     
    So confident he seemed—so certain. Rebecca remembered lines from Nagrela’s poem celebrating Alfuente.
 
My enemy rose—and the Rock rose against him.
How can any creature rise up against his Creator?
Now my troops and the enemy’s drew up their ranks
Opposite each other. On such a day of anger, jealousy,
And rage, men deem the Prince of Death
A princely prize: And each man seeks to win renown,
Though he must lose his life for it.
 
        The hidalgo fired first. He gave no warning, issued no commands, made no threats. He simply crouched slightly, and brought the pistol up in both hands. An instant later, to Rebecca’s shock, the gun went off and the battle erupted.
    It was short, savage and incredibly brutal. Even Rebecca, an utter naif in the ways of violence, knew that guns could not possibly be fired as rapidly as the hail of bullets which erupted from the hidalgo’s pistol and the weapons of his men. She could not see the carnage which those bullets created, in the small mob of mercenaries, but she had no difficulty interpreting their cries of pain and astonishment.
    Literature kept her soul from gibbering terror. She took courage from the hidalgo’s own, that day, and the poetry of another at Alfuente.
 
These young lions welcomed each raw wound upon
Their heads as though it were a garland. To die—
They believed—was to keep the faith. To live—
They thought—was forbidden.
 
        She held her breath. Not all the weapons fired belonged to the hidalgo and his men. She could recognize the deeper roar of the mercenaries’ arquebuses. She fully expected to see the hidalgo’s white shirt erupting with blood.
 
The hurled spears
Were like bolts of lightning, filling the air with
Light . . . The blood of men flowed upon
The ground like the blood of the rams on the corners
Of the altar.
 
        But there was nothing—nothing beyond an unseen wind which tugged the hidalgo’s left sleeve and left it torn and ragged. She hissed. But there was no blood. No blood.
     No blood.
    Suddenly—as shocking, in its way, as the beginning—the battle was over. Silence, except for the sound of footsteps running away and the shouts of fearful retreat. Rebecca heaved a deep breath, then another and another. The motion drew the physician’s eye. After no more than a glance, the Moor turned back to her father. A slight smile came to his face. Rebecca, recognizing the meaning of that smile, flushed from embarrassment. But not much. Just an older man, whimsically admiring a young woman’s figure. There was no threat to her in that smile.
    Rebecca collapsed, falling back from her own crouch onto the cushioned seat of the carriage. She burst into tears, covering her face with her hands.
    Some time later—not more than seconds—she heard the door of the carriage opening again. She sensed the hidalgo entering the carriage. Gently, he eased himself onto the seat next to her and put his arm around her shoulder. Without wondering at the impropriety of her action, she leaned into the shoulder and turned her face into his