plan, as Pedro had outlined in his journal before the family’s departure from Toledo, was for the family to follow the swift-flowing Tagus to Puebla del Mont. Here, they were to ascend the Rio Torcon to the village of Navahermosa. From this point, they were to follow an ancient track across the southward-looking slopes of the Sierra de Guadalupe, to Puerto de San Vicente, Logrosan, and, finally Merida. This track would take them overland through broken, mountainous country whose twisted trees and undergrowth of flowering gorze, blackberry and bilberry sheltered an assortment of wild animals. Here, the woods would be full of animals of every description even if they did not see them. It was this portion of the trip through the mountains of Central Spain that most concerned them. They would be at the mercy of the weather and of the bandits who preyed upon small parties such as theirs. At Merida, they would turn south towards Seville, and from there, they would reach the sea. With luck, and barring any unforeseen circumstances, they would reach the banks of the olive-bordered Guadalquivir River at Seville within three weeks.
Pedro had much on his mind as he let his beast select its own route up the forested trail. He followed the lead mules of their mule train as they slipped and stumbled in mire and muck from melting snow and on the stones and boulders that defined the thorny track. They were following a narrow valley of wood and cork trees with small villages scattered here and there along the way.
* * *
As they passed their days in travel Pedro worried abut what lay ahead. Although there were ventas, or inns, along much of the route, it was impossible to find one that provided both board and lodging. Despite the fact that the inns were filthy, especially the kitchens, which belched thick, black smoke, Pedro and his family continued to stay in them when the opportunity presented itself, for their only other recourse was to set up housekeeping in the fields. The general good appearance of the family often resulted in their being given the best room, but, although they often had the room to themselves, the children’s parents refused to allow them to sleep on the beds, which were little more than lumpy quilts infested with fleas and bedbugs. Instead, and in a guestroom with a chamber pot as their only luxury, they slept on mud floors and on bedding that they carried with them. While the family was accommodated within the inns, however, their muleteers, in the rude manner of the day, slept in the stables on nothing but the panniers and the coverings of their mules all thrown in a heap.
Although the initial portion of their trip was not very difficult, Catalina and Pedro had suffered a catastrophic blow in the deaths of their two children and of their nephew and would have had to be harder than diamonds not to have been brought to their knees. As a wife, aunt, and mother, Catalina had been vitally stricken and was to wear mourning much of her life. As for Pedro, the wound would always be there. But suffering is the essence of being Spanish, and rest a commodity they could ill afford.
For the children, at least, the journey provided distraction. Sleeping each night in a different place and sharing a room and candle with their parents as they had at their home in Carmena, made the trip seem like a grand adventure. That sense of adventure ended when they arrived at the forest.
* * *
Generally, the mountains of Spain have a harsh and lonely appearance. Many are rough, craggy, steeply sloped and forbidding. They have surprisingly few trees and are very sparsely populated. Mercifully, the mountains, or monts, through which the Robledos traveled were small and covered with trees. Although they were also sparsely settled, they served as common pasturage for village cooperatives for the small and infrequent hamlets, which the family came across. However, the Robledos sometimes rode for a whole day without seeing a living creature, except perhaps a cork-stripper with his long-handled hatchet cutting long, oblong sections of bark from the bottom of a tree.
One evening, as it was approaching dark, Pedro and his muletrain spied an inn beside a sluggish creek. They decided to make their lodging there, but the inn was full. The last room had been sold to an odd gentleman, the innkeeper told them, who appeared to be a ‘Romero,’ one of those pilgrims who had gained his name by traveling from the Western Empire (Roman) through the Eastern Empire (Byzantine) on his way to the Holy Land. This man in question, however, was on his way to Santiago de Compostella and he was standing in the courtyard.
The gentleman, a shabby-looking man in what appeared to be penitent’s garb, was standing ankle-deep in mud in his trail-worn sandals. His clothing was most strange. He wore a rude cloak of the coarsest cloth, a short cape, and a flexible hat, and carried a staff to which he had attached a calabaza, or gourd, containing the food he ate. His name, he told them, was Teodore del Torre and he was not actually a pilgrim. “I wear these clothes only to deter thieves on the road,” he said. And his ruse had apparently worked, for he still had all he had come with, which was to say—nothing. Nothing, that is, but a worn book regarding heraldry.
“I’ll be honored to share my room with you,” the strange man said, “and the senora and children can share my bed. It will be a good arrangement,” he said with enthusiasm. “All I ask is that you share the food you’ve brought, for I’ve not come with any.”
The arrangement was not to Pedro’s liking, but he agreed, knowing that Catalina on this night, at least, had to sleep in a bed. The five of them entered the inn and drew up chairs at a rude table that stood near the door. They sat at the table inspecting the hare, which the ventore had placed before them, sniffing at wine stinking of hide and pitch being poured from a ragged goatskin into stone cups, and speaking about this and that. Pedro’s decided to keep the man busy in conversation through the night, leaving the room and bed to Catalina and the children. This appeared to be of no difficulty for Teodore was full of talk. He was planning to submit a petition to become an hidalgo,1 he said, and he was busy designing a coat of arms complete with quartering, crowns and coronets of rank.
“It’s beautiful,” Pedro said of the drawing placed before them expressing more enthusiasm than he felt, “but how does it relate to your name or to your house?”
“The tower, of course, is for Torre,” the man said, “and the mountain is symbolic of my mother’s name which is Montes. This is a little ray of sunshine,” he said, pointing to a yellow slash mark on his drawing, “and the horse is just because I like horses.
“In reality,” he told the family, “my father’s name is Rodriguez, but how does one draw it? The world is full of Rodriguezes,” he said with disdain. “Descendant of Rodrigo! What’s that? I might as well be a Perez, or a Ruiz, or a Martinez . . . a descendant of Pero, Ruy, or Martin . . . one can’t draw those either!”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Pedro said, while holding the drawing up to the candle light and examining the document. “I wouldn’t give that up too quickly, Senor. For example, Martin, or Martinus, derives from Mars or Martis, the Roman god of fertility and war. And, ultimately, Martis derives from the root ‘mar’ which means ‘gleam.’ One could certainly use that. Perhaps you could further search your origins. There’s a Martinez in every wood pile!”
The man looked at him reviewing his red hair and beard and the blue of his eyes in an attempt to determine with whom among their ancestors to place him. Was he Celt, Iberian, Roman or was he one of those Visigoths with their strange un-Spanish names?
“And your name is Robledo, is that right?” the strange man asked with deliberation, a wry smile sliding across his face. “At least that’s what the ventore told me,” he said as though expecting a denial.
“Yes, Robledo. Pedro Robledo,” he responded while looking at Catalina.
“And your father?” the traveler asked, his open mouth revealing acorn stained teeth. “Of what name may we give him?”
“Alejo,” Pedro said, while working at the carcass of their hare with his bare hands.
