We Watch the Sun Change Where it Rises

[Luiza de la Segovia]

We Watch the Sun Change Where it Rises

the journey from Spain to Scotland
France, 1334

Summer became fall, fall became winter. Dry air collided with moister fair enough to make a little shiver but never a full-fledged ripple. While most of the world was buried in countless drifts, the sun held on long even when it wasn't there. That was the nature of Spain. A little snow might fall on Castilla, in the mountains it could be more prolific. It was nothing like winter in the rest of Europe.

Luiza mourned the absence Spain, even the Mediterranean would have been a coming home. The ship from the east of Spain sailed opposite that idea and around, back in the direction of the largest expanse of European coast. No one told her to board it. No one told her to leave - save herself- and the instinct of self preservation.

Aragonese court outlived usefulness to become useless with her watching glories crumble down to dust. Vaasco held the world in his hand in the last days of summer and she bid him let it go. Arcelia, too, had not remained long. The priest, her lover, was dead now. The patron she took to continue living in the life accustomed was in fact an old friend paid for his kindness by having the last memory any man from Spain might ever have of La Coronado's private talents. The sister’s touched hands in Mass for a farewell.

As for Luiza, her Don bid her farewell with a crescent moon smile while passing her payment beyond standard contemplation for being his companion. In return, she allowed him to oversee the management of her lands; the vineyard would bloom and she would not see it. The Christmas Mass would be uttered in one of her chapels but she would not kneel there to pray. No bodies met in the last exchange, nothing but a kiss to her hand, and on her part a "Gracias. We will write, no doubt we will always have much to talk about."

She missed the feeling of land and the familiarity of the wind. It felt strange going around Spain as if walking in reverse. Back, back beyond the places of significance. Valencia, Malaga. Wishing to see Seville though it was too far inland. On the way, the ship had even docked in Lisbon. She had a name now, that like Sanchiz, inspired an immediate reaction; strong likes or dislikes. It mattered little for when they touched Lisbon she would disembark knowing if he elected to follow, it would be to stalk her steps like a protective wraith. Modestly dressed as a woman of substance reflecting her age, no one bothered her save to inquire as to what servant she kept to mind her beautiful sleeves. Her face, like that of her lady's maid, was veiled. There was no business to be done but a little patronage to finalize. It would acquire them more immediate money, given Vaasco could no more plunder Lisbon than she could take it all between her thighs. The joke was crude, but humorous. He had his affairs, and his own fortunes to make.

The long way around was like a farewell tour when all they had to do was go north and cross the border in to France. Only when the boat could reach the waters of Biscay did they disembark to do just that. Part of Luiza settled down in to the womb in this way. She wondered if she would be born again crossing France to another ship. "Will we sail from Bordeaux, or ride a little more?" By now reflecting on Winter in Spain was the truth in France. The weeks went by, one after the other. "This is the most time, Sanchiz, I have spent in your company in countless years." It was, too, the most time he had seen her unadorned as adorned.

Time was kind. Without cosmetics there were soft lines beside her eyes, and a little more worry to her forehead. Winter made her eyes sharper, her teeth glint in a smile. Arcelia was still a razor. He, too, was bereft of all the great 'trappings' of his self provided office with the Soldiers of Fortune. Had he become an honest man of fortune now? They rode as a pair surrounded by some number of men, ten of his finest no doubt. A carriage would await them in the next little inn they stopped at for food and rest. He rode an honest man, his hair bound back, fur around his shoulders.

Sanchiz. Drinker of bloodwine from a human skull at his belt. Killer of all, old or young, infirm and able.
The man who left Toledo only a point on a map to shudder at.

Vaasco stood at the railing of the ship looking west out over the vast spanse of ocean. No, he would not look upon the coast, forlorn, as if to miss the days of his past. Zaragosa could have been another mark on his belt of robbed wealth, but he had resigned to a different that night. The ride into the city had delivered him unto his beloved Luiza.

Now upon a ship bound for who knows what, he stood, dressed as would a Don of old Castille, or an Ambassador of Portugal… the sword and handgonne now stored in a trunk. His length of receding hair was bound in the back by a leather strap. In his coat pocket were documents of Introduction; bound with the Portuguese King’s seal. He was unsure of the true nature of what was written upon it, but he was told it was papers allowing him the freedom to go anywhere… as long as it was not Portugal. As for Spain, he was still a wanted man… but the Spanish Crown would not seek him outside their borders. How Luiza accomplished so much was beyond his comprehension, and alas, he cared not.

The older he got, the harder it was to evade death… especially the certain death offered by sword or gun… He looked down at the water, and a dolphin jumped thru the water with ease. He was amazed at it, having never seen anything like it before.

Days later, he and his beloved Luiza rode in a rented carriage across France from Bordeaux, surrounded by ten of his most trusted. His hand patted Luiza’s knee. “We shall ride further, across France from Bordeaux to Brest, in Brittany… Tis safer than sailing, for Spanish galleons stay close to their shores o’late. It seems that Gaelic ships control the waters of the North Sea to the Great Ocean…” he paused and smiled. “In Brest, we can board a ship for the Gaelic wasteland…” he winked teasing her about the land of cold winds.

They had been in each other’s company for weeks now… After Zaragosa, Vaasco had retreated to coast of the Baeleric Sea. Along the way, the Army of the Spanish King was able to kill most of the Soldados de Ventosa. Vaasco and the remaining men sailed to the coast of Mallorca, taking refuge in the cathedral at Sant Llorenc. It was there that Luiza’s agents would find him. With the aid of the Sant Llorenc priests, Luiza, Vaasco, and his best ten, sailed under a French Flag from Mallorca, around Spain, thru the Gibraltar Strait, north to Bay of Biscay, and disembarked at Biarritz. There they would travel by horse to Bordeaux….and from Bordeaux to Brest by carriage.

“Do you nay enjoy my company M’Lady…?” his hand removed from her knee. “At least we have the carriage to ourselves…” he smirked. “You know my dear Luiza… years have been kind to you… you are as beautiful as the day I met you… and now I can enjoy your beauty as long as I desire…” he smirked again… He chuckled as he peered out the covered window. Still the ever cautious one… “…or at least until you can no longer stand me anymore.”


Soldados de Ventosa. Him, and those faithful around him proved the fortunate ones. Blessed by the angels or by devil? It depended on what cause they took up at the time, and who, if any championed them. It mattered not. The hills and plains of that fortune were for even Luiza to cross only in retrospect now. Vaasco looked as if he crossed them minute by minute. Behind the thick gall he gave off was a man at an age were thought is often all they have of glory. All the while the carriage bumped along the road; the jarring progress hurt her back for all the padding insisted in the seats. The luxury could do little against the seasons and God. Silent for a time, she let him explain the course of action. It soothed him, she thought. For all the living he now did with no sword to his throat or a gun at his back, it was a half life. When you fight for something so long...she recited to herself as she looked to his eyes....you no longer know what it is to live without it. The reason to fight is lost in the act of the doing. Poor Sanchiz. On the ship it appeared to her he wanted to find his life in Biscay. He had in his pockets the papers of a man he detested. Did he really detest him? "Wasteland. You call it a wasteland. I don't know," she watched him take his hand away, grinning a little as he did. " It is not what we left, it is not even where we are now. Draws much attention for place of waste though. I do know it will be cold. I do not like the cold much." She pulled up the blankets up and around her shoulders. She could have stayed in France. The provinces were easy enough to navigate. The cold could be conquered by the warmth of speaking the language. "Do you remember how to speak French, Vaasco? You let your men do it, the merchant's son. Why not you?" Unless necessary he seemed to say so little. Was he mourning for more than he let on with constant stoicism? As he aged the man became no less of a riddle. She was annoyed by it. The fact he fiddled with the letters but had not asked her what they said. He charted courses with travels to substitute for the lack of campaigns in the future that stretched out. Maybe it was not a good idea to do this. She turned her eyes out on the land. It was a long time before she answered his question. A little of her knew that whatever brotherhood he founded in the years with his compatriots was gone now except for the men who guarded a Portuguese men of genteel fortune. Sant Llorec hung before her mind now. She had tried to stop his retreat from Zaragosa but it was to no avail. The parlay discussions had worked to save the city, the Don who arranged it at the King's pleasure no less than a hero. As the camps dismantled the peace was short lived as there were always things that could still be held account for sin and Luiza, though talented, was not able to stop everything. Still a part of her as much as she loathed how he had arrived was in despair to watch him leave again.

In Sant Llorec she had arrived much as she had for the end of Toledo, save the aftermath of this left her wondering if he was not among the dead. All along the way she had heard of people singing the Death of Sanchiz through the King's halls, all through his capital. The world was in a flux; while the sun rose on the house of Aragon it seemed to set on everything that she knew. Her whole world from Castille to Leon. King's gave up their thrones only to die, leaving heirs to flee. Wives cowered in the shadow of generous conquerors. She raged against the dying of the light. Forgetting pragmatism, sense, she had pleaded with the Don until he begrudgingly gave her all she would need to follow in the empty steps as he called them of her too-long paramore. Arcelia followed as far as she could, throwing her scarred hand up to the woman's hair. Pulling, she stopped her long enough to plead, "No, no! How long. How long? You can not chase him when he is a ghost and he will be ghost in the skin long before they pull him from it! If you must leave do not do it this way. You will die! He will go the way of Peter, believe me sister! " The pain. She remembered the pain of her hair throbbing at the roots to a terrific pressure in her scalp. Even in the carriage, it was enough to make her rub her head. It mattered little to recall the rest now because she was here with Vaasco. As much as she had avoided him, he was one of the comets moving constant around her sun. He disturbed all gravity. When he moved, so too must she move.


"I do not think to grow tired of you now. His Majesty does not grow tired of you, the Portuguese. He seems to be a thoughtful man. His daughter with him now, he could advance her cause for her throne. It is hers, until her son comes to age enough to rule. With that there could be Castille again, a Spain of provinces. Some of that I wonder is what you hold in your sealed letters. What you were years ago. Does that not please you even a little, to have it back?" She was too old to look for his praise but part of her wanted it for the sake of their happiness. He was not young, but he was an ambassador once again for the place he had been born. With a consort of a land that crushed him, that he had tried to crush back. He was a comet, and she was the sun in the same universe both belonged.


Still the carriage bounced and bumped along the French roads… The driver banged his hand upon the roof, then yelled down that Brest was in sight… A few more hours the man had insisted. A few more hours, then yet another swaying boat under his feet. Vaasco Sanchiz belonged upon a horse, on hard dry land… not upon Neptune’s path… The man smiled at his companion, the scar across his cheek crinkled as muscles pulled the smile across the leathered face.

The last year had been tumultuous… fate having plagued his glories… Years before, he would sit upon chests of gold, silver, and jewels… all confiscated by force. But this last year… he pondered with a sigh…. Was filled with defeats… accusations of being a mercenary and murderer… But now, he held papers as an Ambassador, from the same country that accused him of treason… He would remain free as long as he never returned to Portugal. How fickle was fate?

“French?” he cast a side-glance at her. “None that would prove useful ‘xcept ina brothel.” His Spanish was as bad as his Portuguese. And he was an Ambassador? His English seemed to be coming along much better nowadays… and the man would finally chuckle. “I am glad to make your acquaintance… My Lord..” he said in the language so foreign, with a hint of Spanish accent. The travels they now endured had forced him to study… Study… something he had not done in decades… but study he must… and his mish-mash of languages could yet be formalized… His pause and chuckle formed into a confirming smile.

And with a second chuckle, he speaks again in English… “I do not care for pol..i..tiks of Espania… I am here to further Portuggee re..la..shuns with the Gaelic Crown.” And he smiles once more. With a changing expression at her questions, he spoke in Spanish to her. “Youth of yesteryear does not enthuse me Luiza… what does, is you and I are here… together… heading in a new direction. All the years before, stay upon the Iberian Peninsula. Let not them find us again. Oh, I am not so naïve not to know you may, and shall, use your… expertise… if you need to… As long as you save the last dance for me…” He forced a smile, but his hand upon her thigh reassured her of his feelings for her.

Those feelings ran deep… deeper than any would know, or even care to guess at. Through the years, they had not said the three magical words of heart more than fingers upon a hand… but something kept them together… something much much deeper than simple, frail words.

When Vaasco peeked out of the curtain covering the carriage windows, he saw village huts transform into stone buildings along the path to Brest… and soon the scent of salt water would captivate their noses. Releasing the material, he looked to Luiza and quirked his eyebrows. “Smell it? The Sea… not much longer now… I hope, before we leave, that our rooms in the city shall be comfortable. I shall sleep good before we board ship.” He shrugged. “For I shall not sleep upon that vessel. It rocks too much…” …settling back in his seat for the remaining distance into the city.


She felt like cargo on every leg of this journey. A well dressed, well to do piece of Spanish cargo with a bruised posterior, aching back, and a mouthful of things no well bred woman ever seek to utter. In Spanish she cursed unseen bastards and devil-whores when a rock all but jarred her up to the roof. "Brest," she muttered with a huff, "What matter? More tossing, more tumbling. I be glad at least when we stay long by one fire. One fire, in one suite of rooms. Though I hear in Scotland it rains much. If we are not tossed and torchured, we will be drowned. The sea.." Salt on top of mud-snow with a dash of chill. Her sour face was more honest than his forced smile. When he touched her, he found a real one for all of his efforts. She closed her eyes and with a great heave of air let loose a sigh that tore at her insides. The reward so far for the sealed letters in his pocket was a constant barrage of rocking, bumping, and being tossed. He was right, at least they were together. She let her fingers trace the knuckles of the fingers on her leg before settling back to watch him. At the moment, Luiza pondered his use of languages.

"How will you ever be Ambassador? You not so bad when in courtesan house, but you not so good either. You talk to me in Portugese. It better for you." Wry grin gave the suggestion of humor. Luiza was not one for humor so direct one laughed in the open but could conjure up the appearence of it for her patron on a whim. This was genuine though, hand waving a little then covering her mouth. "Your French must be pitiful, your English it just..sounds different. Oh Vaasco, but I suppose you need not many languages when you make war all in one?" The Solados weren't really Spaniards. Oh, a few of them had broken rank with city or village to join the hunt for fortune but most of them were the lacking, the disregarded sons of Portugal. "You should not forget where you are from. No one can take this from you, did you not tell me that many years ago? Solados can be ambassadors again, just like honest courtesans are made from the daughters of men who hold glass. We still have a little time and thank God, you travel with a good teacher. You are going to need your English. They speak that as common thing. You poor man. So much asked of you.Maybe later we try speaking in more English" Her accent was undeniably pure. It was the training and years that did it. Did his skin crawl with all of this? The path to Brest was becoming more and more populated. Sounds joined them, sounds of life outside of the carriage. A glimpse beyond the curtain revealed household chores being done or those that could afford the luxury of a horse taking it out for paces. A room here would be a welcome reprieve. For all of the expedience of their journey had been an escape from the world that was known, and she doubted anyone would follow the pace they made. They would have been made to do so, mad to travel as they traveled.

So much time together allowed her the chance to look at his face. Even with the loss of his hair, he was not an unkept man. Even with the scar, he was not without his attributes. This man who had brought Toledo to the ground once only to return again and finish what he started just after the frail remnants of its rebuilding looked like he didn't know if this beginning was worth his time. She shifted herself to sit next to him. Proximity was still a strange phenomenon even with the weeks of togetherness. He was beholden to no one and she didn't expect his age to soften him anymore than it already had. Very gently, she let her finger come together with his in a show of solidarity. "We figure point in this. We figure point."