Domingo Armada series Omnibus

by Jefferson Bonar

  And what of her baby?

  Her father said if it was a girl, the nuns would raise it. Which meant a childhood of servitude. And once she was too old to be of use to the nuns, what then? Cast out into the street to be a beggar or a prostitute, which was how most orphans ended up.

  And what if it was a boy? Her father had offered to put him up with the family of one of the workers in his silk factory in Seville. Mencía had seen how those workers lived. Crowded into rat-infested hovels, working long hours, never having enough to eat, and paid a pittance. Little more than a slave.

  Her father never considered the idea of her raising her own child. He was too worried about saving her honour, by which he meant his own. Mencía knew he couldn’t risk letting her escape without punishment. What would people think of him? No, there had to be atonement. She had to pay for her mistake. And he’d allowed no more discussion on the issue.

  Weeks later, she was here in a tiny cabin on a galleon, part of a twenty-eight-strong fleet. One of the soldiers on board had told her Oran had been under siege by the Ottomans for months and they were on their way to relieve them. One sight of this fleet and the Ottomans would give up, he’d said. For the first time in many years, Mencía prayed that night. She prayed the Ottomans would not be impressed by the fleet and that her arrival to the nunnery would be indefinitely delayed.

  Apparently her prayers were heard, for a few days later, the storm hit and forced the fleet to take shelter in this tiny bay with the very Spanish name of La Herradura. It wasn’t clear why the locals called this bay “horseshoe,” but Mencía didn’t care. It was Spanish. They had not left home quite yet. She could still…

  Another smattering of rain on the window broke Mencía from her thoughts. She became aware of the racing about up on deck. It had gone on for quite some time now. Was this normal? She didn’t know. But she was starting to get nervous.

  Mencía peered out the window, trying to see past the sheets of rain, and could just make out the murky shapes of the hills that surrounded them. If the storm passed, and they continued on, this could be her last glance of Spain ever.

  Unless, of course, she found a way off this boat.

  The thought excited her. She could take back control of her life. Perhaps even return to Anton. It sounded like there was a lot of confusion up on deck. Her father had left the cabin half an hour ago to see if the captain could use his expertise. From the sound of it, he wasn’t coming back anytime soon. If things were frenzied enough up there, perhaps it would make a good enough distraction for her to slip away.

  Mencía grabbed her father’s large black overcoat and threw it on, hoping it might help her blend in a bit better. Then she went out into the tiny corridor and up the creaky wooden steps that led to the deck.

  The freezing rain was a shock as it hit her face. The coat was not thick enough to hold out the wind blasting across the deck, and she was already shivering.

  Mencía looked around. Everywhere sailors raced about, and she saw no sign of her father or the captain. She went to the railing on the starboard side and saw the other ships in the fleet bobbing about on the choppy waves, held in place by their anchor chains that snapped taut and then went slack again. The waves were larger and more violent than she’d imagined, and all the rain made it difficult to judge how far they were anchored from any kind of shoreline. She would need a better view, and for that she would have to climb the ladder that led to the rear deck.

  Mencía stumbled over to the ladder, keeping her feet wide apart to steady herself as the deck continued to list one way and then the other, threatening to throw even the seasoned sailors off their balance.

  Mencía was quite proud of having stayed on her feet as she grabbed the lower rung of the ladder and steadied herself.

  A hand grabbed her shoulder. “Mencía! What are you doing up here?”

  Her father glared at her from behind the dripping-wet moustache that took up much of his face.

  “I…I just wanted to see what was going on.”

  “This is no place for you! Get back inside!”

  “I don’t want to!” Mencía screamed over the howling wind. “I deserve to know what is going on!”

  “You have a baby to think about! You should be resting!”

  “What do you care about my baby?” It was an old argument and would change little. She hadn’t meant to say it.

  “We don’t have time for this. Now get back—”

  Her father was interrupted by a very loud snap from above their heads. He gawked at the sail, then looked at the others.

  Mencía’s anger drained away as she gazed across the deck to see most of the sailors doing the same thing.

  “What’s happening?” Mencía asked.

  “The storm…” her father said. He had never let his fear show to Mencía. Not once. But there was little he could do to hide it now. And it frightened her.

  “It’s changing direction. The ships are anchored on the wrong side. We’ll be thrown into the rocks…”

  Several more snaps could be heard as the sails that hadn’t yet come down filled with air. The deck exploded into panic. Sailors dashed about, pulling on ropes to bring down the sails amidst a hailstorm of orders being shouted at them by the captain.

  Mencía became aware of the desperate cries of the sailors on the other ships in the fleet that pierced their way through the rain and darkness. Then the sound of breaking wood, as if a large tree were being felled in a forest. Then splashes like cannonballs landing in the water, followed by more crunching.

  “Get inside!” her father yelled.

  This time Mencía knew not to argue.

  But it was already too late. From the darkness, the outline of something loomed off the larboard side. It grew larger as the moonlight touched the uppermost tips of the sails. Then the hull of the beast came into view. It was a galleon, the sails full of a powerful gale that pushed it straight into their ship. The anchor chain slapped against its hull, slack and useless to stop the vessel from ramming them.

  “It’s going to—” her father squeaked out.

  The ship hit their midsection with its bow, pushing the galleon over to the starboard side so far that Mencía saw there was little to stop her from falling into the water below. Her cries were drowned out by the sound of wood being crushed. She dropped to her knees, attempting to reach for her father’s hand, for she could see through the sheets of rain that he’d managed to grasp a large metal mooring pylon and was now trying to grab her.

  The rain had made the deck so slippery that Mencía started to slide down towards the port railing, which was now underwater. She grasped for anything to grab hold of as her ears filled with the sound of sailors falling into the water below. The ship continued to list to the port side until the deck was almost vertical. Mencía felt the deck slide and then drift away from her, followed by the sensation of falling.

  Her body plunged into the freezing water, the shock of which made her gasp and take in a mouthful of salty ocean. She gagged, trying to cough it out, but there was just more seawater to replace it. Mencía knew she had only a few moments to get to the surface.

  But she’d become disoriented, having no idea which way to swim. Sailors and debris were now exploding into the water all around her, and the hull of the dying galleon groaned and creaked as it sank farther into the depths, forming strong currents that grabbed at Mencía, as if the ship itself were clinging to her in a futile attempt to save itself. Mencía clawed at the water, desperate to get out of the way, desperate for air, desperate to survive any way she could.

  For a moment, all seemed lost in the murky darkness.

  Then Mencía felt the cold sting of air hit her cheek. Her lungs took large gulps of it in between the massive waves that still pummelled her with water from above.

  Mencía fought to keep her head above water but found it difficult. She had to kick her legs to overcome the massive weight of her father’s overcoat that threatened to pull her under. And her long w
hite dress, the one her father had chosen to protect her modesty during the voyage, was now getting tangled up in her legs and making it hard to propel her body through the water.

  Someone grabbed her right arm. She turned to catch the eyes of a gaunt, slender man with black hair, dark olive skin, and little clothing, which made it obvious he was a galley slave. He said something in Arabic and pointed off to the distance.

  “Can you get to shore?” she yelled over the wind, knowing he probably didn’t speak Spanish.

  The slave grabbed at her dress.

  “Stop that!” Mencía said, pulling his hand away and offended at his attempts to rip her dress off.

  The slave pointed at her dress and overcoat again. That’s when Mencía understood. She had to get rid of the weight if he was to save her. Otherwise, it would pull them both under.

  Mencía shed her father’s coat and ripped off the white dress he’d had made for her, leaving them to float away as more bits of debris. Now just in her underdress but much lighter, she felt the muscled arm of the galley slave wrap around her middle. He pointed his body into the darkness and swam for both of them.

  She had no idea how long it had taken them to swim across the bay, for she’d lost all sense of time. But suddenly she felt soft sand beneath her feat as the slave heaved her tired body up the beach out of the reach of the waves.

  Mencía caught her breath and thanked her saviour over and over. The slave smiled and bowed his head to her.

  Behind the man, Mencía saw the bay was now filling with the broken masts and shattered hulls of ships still being thrashed about in the water by the storm. A thick carpet of debris was already being washed up on shore along with the lifeless bodies of drowned sailors.

  Without the slave who had saved her, Mencía knew her own lifeless body would have been among them. The slave’s time in the galleys had made him well suited to survive a night like this. His body made slender from starvation and his arms strong from long hours spent rowing meant he could slice his way through the waves and get to shore without tiring, unlike most of the commissioned sailors in the fleet.

  Something moved past her ear, and Mencía saw the Arabic man dive back into the water along with a few of his fellow slaves towards the destruction to bring back more survivors.

  At the moment, Mencía was alone on the beach. A group of sailors had come ashore a bit farther on, but they were busy pulling each other from the water.

  Mencía wanted to know if her father was still alive. But if he was, and they were reunited, how long before he made new arrangements to send her to Oran? She knew her father. He was not a man who gave up on his plans so easily.

  Then a thought struck her—had her prayers been answered tonight? Had she been given one final opportunity to get away? She might never know if her father survived or not. But it meant freedom. A chance to stay away for longer than a year this time. Perhaps for life. Perhaps even with Anton.

  Mencía turned away from the destruction in the bay and towards the hills behind her. They were pitch black, as the moon was behind the storm clouds. Considering what happened tonight, it would be so easy to disappear into that blackness. Never to be seen again.

  Her heart pounding, Mencía raced up the hillside before she could be spotted. As far as anyone would know, she had drowned in the disaster tonight along with everyone else. And it was true. Mencía Marañón, beloved daughter of Alonso de Marañón, knight of the Order of Santiago, had indeed died. For she would never be that woman again.

  Who she would be instead she had yet to find out.

  Chapter Six

  October 1660

  Armada stood in front of a door made of olive branches fastened together with rusty iron nails. He was on a narrow street just off the main plaza that was crowded with single- and two-storey townhouses built of piled boulders and clay bricks, twisted wooden beams, and crumbling plaster. It was still late in the morning, and there were people chatting in the street and wives walking around with piles of clothing to and from the lavadero, most with squirrelly children hanging from their grey, undyed dresses.

  Armada could feel them watching him, leaning out of windows, listening for any clue as to what he was doing there. It would have been impossible to hide anything from them here.

  “Excuse me,” he said through the door. “Is there anyone home?”

  There was shuffling about inside, and moments later, a large woman opened the door, wiping her hands on the soiled apron that spilled over the front of her dress and looking annoyed at the intrusion.

  “You’re that constable.”

  The woman was short and quite wide, with rough, calloused hands and hand-stitched clothes. Her greying hair bobbed about on her head in large curls that little effort had been made to control. She looked to be somewhere in her fifties, although a life of hard manual labour meant she might be younger.

  “Domingo Armada of the Holy Brotherhood. I’ve come to talk to you about Esteban Marañón.”

  The woman grunted, pulling herself away from the door and returning to her cooking pot. She stirred it, gave it a sniff, and did not look happy with the result.

  Armada entered to find the house was a typical Andalusian style. It was quite small, with two tiny windows facing the street that cast two squares of white-hot sunlight on the floor, which gave off enough ambient light to see by. Much of the main room was eaten up by the large firepit in the corner and a long wooden table against the wall around which were four chairs.

  A small wooden crucifix was attached to the cream plastered walls. Everything else was austere and functional, the house of a family who lived much of their lives outside, thus making a cool, dark house like this a welcome relief from the sun.

  “You must be Señora Quiteria Maraion,” Armada said, noting there was one bedroom in the back he couldn’t see because the door was shut.

  “If you’re looking for my husband, he’s out fishing. Won’t be back until tonight.”

  Quiteria spoke in a cropped, shortened manner, as if she hadn’t time for luxuries like proper diction. Armada watched as she popped a few more bits of chopped cabbage into the stew and stirred it again.

  “I can speak with you if that’s all right.”

  Quiteria gave no response, so Armada continued.

  “As I understand it, Señor Marañón was billeted here before the raid six months ago.”

  Quiteria let a snort of disapproval escape her nose, then she crossed to the table.

  “How did it go?”

  “He was a lovely boy at first,” Quiteria said. “Helped out with the chores when he could. Never ate too much. And he had an interest in our family. Never got tired of hearing my Juanma drone on about aunts and cousins and grandparents. My husband can talk anyone’s ear off when it comes to family. And that boy never seemed to get tired of it.”

  “Did something change?”

  Quiteria glanced at the bedroom door. “Well, the raid happened, didn’t it?”

  “Were you here for it?”

  “I certainly was! There was shouting and screaming from the other side of the plaza, and I figured something was up. So I locked my Isabel in that bedroom there, and my husband and I grabbed the biggest sticks we could find. If any of those monsters had tried to get in here, they would have gotten quite a beating.”

  Armada had little doubt this was true.

  “Fortunately for us, those bellacos didn’t make it this far inland. It was everyone on the beach side of the plaza who got the worst of it. That’s where all the children were taken.”

  “So Isabel, she is your daughter?”

  “Yes. Just turned sixteen this year. And ripe pickings for those pirates. I’ve lost two other children in my life, God rest their souls, and I couldn’t take losing her too.”

  Armada sensed Quiteria was talking more now because she was nervous. She kept glancing to the bedroom door, as if worried someone back there might be overhearing. Isabel, Armada assumed. It was possible the raid traumati
zed her more than her mother was willing to let on.

  “What about Esteban’s family? Did he ever discuss them?”

  “Told us he was an orphan. Was a beggar until he was old enough to join the army. Maybe that’s why he was interested in our family so much. He didn’t have one of his own,” Quiteria said, shoving her way past Armada to get an onion. She seemed to be avoiding eye contact with him and using her movements about the house to hide it. This was not a woman who was used to being nervous.

  “How about after the raid? Did things change after that?”

  “I remember Esteban didn’t say much to us. Just holed up in that back bedroom all day. He hadn’t much to do, really, as he’d been relieved from duty. Everyone in the pueblo was more focused on mourning than on placing blame. They were hard times. I knew every one of those families who lost someone. What they went through, you can never know…”

  Quiteria’s voice cracked. She chopped the onions and tossed them into the stew before giving it a good stir.

  “So what changed?” Armada asked.

  “Martin, that’s what changed. He started giving all these speeches at the ayuntamiento about how the army men were ruining our town. We put up with them because they were supposed to keep us safe. But if they can’t do that, then we shouldn’t let them stay. That’s when everyone around here started turning nasty towards Esteban. They even gave Juanma and me trouble for keeping him in our home. They said we should throw him out.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “I felt sorry for the boy. He fell asleep. An honest mistake. But later, I…”

  “Later?” Armada asked.

  “Well, Martin proved himself right. The boy was a disgrace, just like all the rest of them. I was happy that night when Salinas came to collect him. They left so fast Esteban didn’t have time to pack. All his things are still here.”

  There it was again. Vagueness. Quiteria always spoke in short, sharp sentences that were specific. So once in a while when she became vague, it seemed odd. Especially as it was the only time she allowed her voice to trail off.