But she couldn’t admit that to Hector. She didn’t want him to know he had the power of reason on his side. What she was doing was irrational and mad, and she had no plan. She admitted that. But she hadn’t had time yet to think about any of those things. Not if she was to make use of the last opportunity she would ever get to escape the fate her father had planned for her.
She had to stay in La Herradura until the cleanup operation was finished and all the sailors went home. Until then, she couldn’t risk anyone else in the village knowing she was here. No, she had to make it work with these people tonight.
“Maybe you’re right,” Mencía said, trying to speak in a soothing voice to ease the tension. “Maybe I don’t have a choice. But you do. You can choose to help me.”
“No,” Hector said.
“Just give me a few days. A few days! I just want to figure out what I’m going to do. Then I’ll leave and never trouble you again. I can stay in the back bedroom. No one will know I’m here,” Mencía said.
“I think it’s the right thing to do, Hector,” Ana said.
Hector stared at his wife, and Mencía held her breath. Everything depended on his response.
“What about her father? What about how he feels?” Hector said. “Remember feeling like that about our children? Ripping ourselves apart with worry? And now you want to help her do the same to her father?”
“I wouldn’t, of course, but, Hector—” Ana began.
“No! This discussion is over! She goes back to her father in the morning. She can sleep here tonight. That’s it.”
Hector marched towards the back bedroom. Mencía felt a bolt of panic go through her. How could he cast away her freedom like that? What right did this man she didn’t know have to decide what the life would be for her and her baby? It made Mencía angry. She was so tired of having her future decided for her. She couldn’t take it anymore.
“You’re already in trouble,” Mencía said, stopping Hector at the bedroom door.
“If you tell them I was here,” Mencía said, “they’ll know you were hiding me. They’ll arrest you anyway no matter what you say. My father is very unforgiving. He’ll make sure you go to prison for it. And he has a very good lawyer.”
This got Hector’s attention, and he glared back at Mencía. She knew her father was unforgiving, yes, but only when it came to her. With other men, he was much more open-minded. And he had never before taken anybody to court, so she wasn’t sure he even knew a lawyer. But she was desperate.
“I told you I didn’t want any trouble,” Hector said.
“And you won’t have any,” Mencía said. “Just let me stay a few days. Then I’ll leave, and no one will ever know I was here.”
Hector said nothing and stormed into the bedroom. Mencía knew she’d won for now, but she would never be sure she could trust Hector entirely.
Ana began cleaning up the dishes from the table.
“Thank you,” Mencía said. “It’s kind of you to do this.”
“Of course,” Ana said but with less conviction than she’d had before.
The next few days were tense but quiet. Mencía found herself relegated to the back bedroom, but she came out to help Ana do the chores as much as she could. There was so much washing and cleaning and sewing, much of which Ana had to teach Mencía how to do. She’d never been taught such domestic tasks before, as there were always servants at home to take care of such things for her. But Mencía was happy to learn, as it meant she would be more independent once the baby came.
Little by little, Ana warmed to Mencía again and even began sewing clothes for the baby while discussing with her all the more intimate details of what would happen during the actual delivery.
Hector was gone during this time, as he was required to keep working at the beach with the other men in town. He avoided contact with Mencía whenever possible, making his contempt for her clear whenever they were in the same room together.
It was the evening of the fourth day when everything changed. Hector was away at a town hall meeting at the ayuntamiento while Ana began making another pot of her onion soup. It was long after dark, so Mencía decided it was safe enough to come over to the firepit and learn how it was done. Ana showed Mencía all the tricks of chopping onions, what kinds of herbs she used, and how much of each herb to add, as well as the trick of adding a tiny bit of flour to help thicken it up. To Mencía, it was nothing short of sorcery. The smell of onion soup soon filled the house, and both women found themselves with a bit of time as they waited for the water to boil before throwing everything in.
“Do you miss him?” Ana asked Mencía out of nowhere.
“Who?”
Ana pointed to Mencía’s belly. “The father.”
Mencía thought of Anton. What she wouldn’t give to be with him again. She hadn’t had a chance to think of him much in the past few days, and she wished there was some way to let him know she was all right and that she had survived the shipwreck and was now fighting for a better life for their baby. It horrified her to think Anton thought she might be dead. Someday she would make her way back to him and tell him everything that had happened. Someday.
“Yes.”
“Well, wherever he is, God will bring him back to you. Families are supposed to be together.”
Mencía wasn’t sure if it was the heat from the fire, the sense of security the little house brought her, or her mind playing tricks on her in the darkness, but for a moment, Ana bore a striking resemblance to Mencía’s mother.
There was a loud rapping on the door. Mencía bolted to her feet and dashed into the bedroom.
“Is there someone inside? Please open the door,” said a man outside. It was an order, not a question. From the sound of it, the man would have little hesitation to barge his way inside if need be.
“Yes, I’m coming,” Ana said, waiting for Mencía to be hidden away before opening it.
Peering through the gap in the slats of the bedroom door, Mencía could just make out the chest and hips of the man talking to Ana. He wore the tattered remnants of a military uniform, soiled and blood soaked. Another man stood next to him, wearing peasant’s clothes that were much cleaner.
“What is your name?” the man asked.
Ana told him. Then she was asked about everyone who lived there and the size of her house. Ana mentioned she lived there with her husband and pregnant daughter.
“There is a fleet arriving in a few weeks from Malaga to pick up the survivors of the disaster and take them home,” the man said. “Until that time, every household in this pueblo will be required to billet as many sailors as they can handle.”
Ana murmured something to the other man before he stepped inside and took stock of the house. Mencía stepped away from the door and got into bed, turning her back to the door and pretending to be asleep.
“We only have the one room, which we all share. We haven’t the room for another.”
“Every household is expected to take at least one,” the man said. “This man is being assigned to you. You are expected to house him and feed him as long as is needed until the fleet arrives. Is that understood?”
“I suppose,” Ana said.
“Thank you, Señora Aguilar,” the man said and left.
There was an awkwards silence.
“My name is Ana Aguilar,” Mencía heard her say.
Mencía couldn’t quite make out the sailor’s response. She slipped out of bed and went to the door, peering through the slats to get a look at him. But he was standing with his back to her.
Twenty-eight ships, Mencía reminded herself. Her father had said the fleet was made up of twenty-eight ships. The chances of this sailor being someone who knew her were slim if not impossible.
The sailor walked round the house, ignoring most of Ana’s attempts at introductions and formalities.
“What’s that soup I smell?” the sailor said.
“Onion soup. I’ve just made it. Would you like some?”
; “Yes. Two bowls. I’m starving. Where is this daughter of yours, then? Is she back there?”
The sailor walked up to the bedroom door and put his hand out to open it.
For the first time, Mencía got a good look at the man’s face. She gasped and stepped back.
She needn’t have overheard it when he said his name. She knew it full well. Salvador Torrini, quartermaster of the ship she and her father were on. A good friend to her father, a stern authoritarian to his men, and someone who would recognise Mencía.
“Yes, but I beseech you to let her rest,” Ana said, trying not to sound alarmed. “She is with child, and she has had a difficult day.”
Salvador attempted to peer through the slats of the door, but Mencía had moved out of the way, holding her breath.
“Come have some soup, Señor Torrini,” Ana said. “Here, I’ve prepared it for you.”
Salvador huffed, then walked over to the table by the firepit and dug into his soup.
Mencía was trapped.
Chapter Fourteen
October 1660
Fear jolted Lucas awake as he realised he had nearly let go of the hillside he was clutching. It was getting harder to stay awake. He found his thoughts would begin to drift, and before he knew it, his eyes were closed. He wasn’t sure if he’d slept or not, but he couldn’t risk it happening again. Sleeping meant letting go of the hillside and his life.
Earlier Lucas had tried climbing back up to the trail above him. But his movements caused the ledge under his toes to give way a little bit, sending tiny balls of earth rolling down the hillside to the crashing waves far, far below. The panic he felt while climbing the watchtower had returned and threatened to start his hands shaking again, which would make things worse. So it took all his concentration to try and ward it off.
That’s when Lucas’s mind began to buckle under the pressure. Visions began to swirl about his consciousness, his mind determined to conjure up a cocktail of nightmares and memories, all seeking to emulate the terror he was feeling right now. Lucas could make little sense of it, for whenever he focused on one vision, it would distort and corrupt itself into another.
But one particular vision kept coming back to him. It was a memory of a tiny bedroom just an arm’s length wide. He was lying in a bed, bundled up in blankets, all by himself. Moonlight streamed in through a tiny window above his head, and it was splashing on the wall opposite. The wall had a rough texture made of cream plaster that created patterns in which frightening images began to appear.
It was the most afraid Lucas had ever been in his life. A memory he had pushed so far back into his consciousness he’d forgotten it was there.
Eleven years old, just hours before having come across the bloodied bodies of his parents. He had grappled with the thought of how someone could do something like that all night. It was the night his innocence had died. The night he become aware of what the dark heart of the human animal was capable of.
After that, a confusing blur of events. He was whisked out of the only pueblo he’d ever known to stay with distant relatives for safekeeping. He was told the Brotherhood would be contacted, which gave him little comfort.
Lucas had never met the relatives he stayed with that night and didn’t remember them now. But he remembered that first night in their house. He knew why he was there. There was someone in this world who wanted him to die just like his parents. And that person could come for him that night. He could die, something he had never considered before at eleven years old.
There was a call from above his head, and Lucas looked up. Faint rays of sunlight peeked over the ridge. How long had it been? Had he slept?
There were people on the ridge above. A farmer and his son. They were racing about, calling to him and waving their arms. Soon a rope was lowered, and Lucas grabbed it, so grateful his ordeal was over. He was hauled up, put in the back of a cart, and taken straight back to the watchtower.
“Lucas,” Armada said, racing over to him. “Where have you been?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Lucas said as he got out of the cart. His legs were still numb from the night before, and he felt the ground slap him in the face.
Pedro and Barros helped him up. Armada directed them to take Lucas to Esteban’s old shelter, where Lucas could do little to hold off the temptation of sleep.
When he awoke again, the sun was high in the sky. He sat up. The feeling had returned to his legs, but his head was pounding.
Armada was there next to him. “Good morning again, Lucas. Or should I say good afternoon?”
“How long have I been asleep?” Lucas asked. He realised his hands were shaking, and he couldn’t stop them. And he felt so cold all of a sudden.
“A few hours. I was hoping you would sleep the rest of the day, really. Although since you’re up, you can tell me what happened to you last night.”
Armada gave Lucas some water, and he told the whole tale to Armada, leaving out his experience on the cliff face, of course.
“Martin? Martin Figueroa, the alcalde?” Armada said.
“Yes, sir.”
“And he was with Jose last night?”
“I’m sure of it.”
“Well…this does change things, doesn’t it?” Armada said. “This shack you saw. Could you find it again?”
“I think so, sir.”
“Well then, it sounds like we have a bit of a hike ahead of us.”
A few hours later, Lucas was leading the way down the hillside where he’d followed Jose the night before. In the light of day, the going was much easier, and they were soon standing in front of the shack where he’d seen Jose that night.
In the daylight, Lucas could see there were no windows. Just a large wooden door in the front secured by a rusted iron lock.
Armada gazed at it, his eyes sparkling. “Not the sort of cottage a gypsy woman would be interested in, wouldn’t you say? Let’s say we meet this woman.”
Lucas wasn’t sure if Armada was being serious. Armada then rapped on the door a few times.
“Is anyone there? Is anyone home? No?”
Armada backed up a few steps, found a large stone, and used it to break the rusted lock that secured the front door.
Armada ripped the door open to find the shack was packed to the ceiling with large barrels.
“Now, that’s curious. I don’t see a gypsy woman anywhere,” Armada said.
It was rare when Lucas heard him use sarcasm.
“What are they, sir?” Lucas said.
He inspected the barrels. They were quite large, and each had a hole drilled into the top that was stopped by a cork. Armada popped one off and gave the contents inside a sniff.
“Brandy,” Armada said. “About thirty barrels of it, I’d say. And no sign of an excise stamp. Which means these haven’t been imported. They’ve been smuggled. But I don’t understand…”
Lucas’s attention was drawn to the floor of the shack. There were spaces to the left of the door marked by round circles of spilled brandy, suggesting barrels had been there recently.
“Sir, look here. Four of the barrels are missing. It must have been what they were doing last night,” Lucas said.
“Here,” Armada said.
He strode out of the shed towards where a small fishing boat was tucked into a small cove and covered in a net made of seaweed. Armada ripped the netting away, dipped his finger in the sludge at the bottom of the hull, and smelled it.
“Brandy. Which means they took four barrels of it somewhere last night. They must have been transported somewhere.”
“I don’t understand, sir.”
Lucas trudged out to the edge of the sand until the waves lapped at his ankles. This was the spot where, if he looked off to the west, he could just see the top of the watchtower peering at them from over a nearby outcropping.
“There’s no way to approach this beach by sea where you aren’t seen by the watchtower,” Lucas said. “So how did they get it out of here?”
“Th
ere’s only one way that could have happened, Lucas. Come on.”
A short while later, they were back at the army camp. Salinas, Pedro, and Lucas looked on while Armada began to make Barros angry.
“No,” Barros said. “I didn’t fall asleep. I never do.”
“I’ve never known him to, Armada,” Salinas said.
“Then how did you miss it?” Armada asked.
“There was nothing there.”
“There was a ship!” Armada barked. “Just off the coast! It was loaded with four barrels of contraband brandy, taken to it by a small oared fishing boat, an operation that would have taken at least an hour or two. And despite this, you somehow saw nothing during your shift last night?”
“That is right,” Barros said.
“No, it isn’t. It’s impossible.”
“There was nothing there, Constable,” Pedro said. “You and I would have seen it too.”
Armada looked like he wanted to keep arguing but stopped himself. “Very well. Thank you both.”
Lucas followed Armada back to Esteban’s shelter. Once he was sure they couldn’t be overheard, Lucas leaned over to him.
“Do you believe them, sir?”
“I’m not sure yet. We need to find out more about what Jose Encinas and Martin Figueroa did with those four barrels last night. Because if there is any chance someone in this company has been paid off to look the other way when it comes to smugglers…”
“You mean Esteban Marañón might have been involved?”
“Possibly, or he at least knew about it. If that’s true, then it would give them the motivation to kill him.”
Lucas couldn’t help but wonder if Esteban had known what was coming. If so, did he have his own loss of innocence that last night in the watchtower? Did he wonder, as Lucas had all those years ago, if there really was a killer out there who wanted him dead?
The difference was that in Esteban’s case, he was right.
Domingo Armada series Omnibus Page 39
