Her parents were finicky with their food, but she was grateful that her mother at least had a few mouthfuls of the warm carrot soup she’d made. If anything, it would warm her cold body enough to get a bit of sleep that night. Given the dramatic events of the past few weeks, with so much gossip flying about, it was no wonder her mother had trouble sleeping.
Yet it did make it difficult for Sancha, who, despite the exhaustion that came with running her household, had always been a light sleeper. So when her mother was up in the night and dawdling around the house, especially during one of her episodes when she believed she was still a young woman and would try to clean the house as if it were her own, it meant Sancha got very little rest.
But the events had the opposite effect on her father. Once a shrivelled shell of a man who had never gotten over the fact he had gotten too old to keep fishing, the news around the pueblo had brought him back to life. He talked about everything he had heard, his mind now having something to dwell on, to deconstruct and understand in that meticulous fashion of his. He had heard all the theories of what had happened with Esteban Marañón and with the old alcalde, Figueroa, and had figured out what was happening with the smuggling ring and Jose Encinas before anyone else had. For that reason alone, Sancha wished the drama would never end. Her father seemed twenty years younger, especially when he went to the tavern for the first time in years, as that was where all the best rumours were being traded around.
There was a chill in the house despite Sancha’s efforts at stoking the fire. They were reaching the coldest part of the winter now, which meant Sancha worried more for her parents. She’d spent the autumn sewing extra blankets for everybody, using bits of old fabric she’d been collecting from around the pueblo. The children would have to share, but they didn’t seem to mind. They had lived their whole lives sleeping on each other like stray dogs. Sancha found it adorable, as she knew it wouldn’t last.
Supper went as expected, and everyone seemed to enjoy the soup. Sancha was tired from a long day of running errands, especially since that afternoon was the day for getting water from the fountain. But she couldn’t think about that now. There was still so much to do tonight. And the first thing was to let everyone in the family know what she was planning.
“That’s mad,” was her father’s reaction.
“You shouldn’t have to do something like that. It’s not your job. You have more than enough to do here,” her mother said.
“There’s no one else who is willing to. So it falls to me,” Sancha said. She had long since decided, so she wasn’t allowing any argument on the issue.
“If anything happens, or you need anything, you can send one of the children to fetch me. It’s not like you won’t know where I am.”
“Please, Sancha, be reasonable. It’s too much,” her father protested.
On and on the conversation went. Sancha let them try to talk her out of it, for she knew her parents tired easily. And soon enough, the children were yawning, and her mother was threatening to fall asleep at the table. So Sancha told them they could discuss it more tomorrow. She helped everyone to bed and made sure they had water and candles and everything they would need.
An hour later, the house was quiet. Sancha’s body was used to settling in to her own bed now, and she struggled to stay on her feet as she grabbed a bag she had packed earlier, kissed her children on their heads, and slipped out the door into the cold night air.
The town was quiet and dark, with everyone’s shutters closed to ward off the worst of the cold. Many of the chimneys had smoke rising from them, although this late at night few were being stoked anymore. Sancha made her way west, where the jumbled houses of town gave way to dusty tracks that seemed to disappear into the darkness. Just beyond this darkness, the moonlight was enough to cut out the outline of the ridge above her head and the tower that sat just above.
But Sancha had grown up walking these trails. She knew every step of them, so she marched into the darkness, making her way through the weeds and along the hillside and crevices in the landscape until she found herself in a clearing.
She had long since lost her breath, especially for the last stretch of the walk, which seemed to be all uphill. She took a moment and doubled over, breathing in gulps of the freezing air into her lungs until they calmed. She stood up then to find she was standing in the debris-ridden remains of the old army camp. It had already been pillaged by people in the pueblo for valuables and good building materials, so all that was left were the shells of a few of the shelters and the remnants of a firepit. The air was much colder up here, but it was also easier to see by, as there was little to block the moonlight.
Sancha turned towards the tower and was soon standing at the base of it. She gazed up at it, remembering how high it had seemed the first time she’d climbed up there. The rope ladder had been left dangling, so Sancha grabbed it and scampered up the ladder, taking no time to glance below.
She was soon squirming her way in through the entrance at the top and found herself sitting in the tiny room with the conical ceiling once again. It was cold up here, but she’d come prepared. Sancha pulled out a small wool blanket she’d folded up in her bag and laid it out to sit on, then grabbed a bit of bread and some cheese she had brought with her, as she had been so busy making sure her family had enough to eat she had forgotten to eat any for herself.
She wondered what the soldiers had gotten up to during their long shifts up here in this room, which led to thoughts about whether they would ever return. Many in town were glad they were gone. And it was here where Sancha really saw the lasting legacy of Martin Figueroa. For he had managed to convince so many that the soldiers were the source of all the sin in town. With the army gone, many believed the town would return to a time when it was more pure and innocent.
Sancha knew this was silly. There had always been vice in La Herradura. The men there had always indulged in gambling, drinking, and women of the night. The army had only joined in the fun. They hadn’t brought anything new.
But because of Martin’s influence, everyone in town seemed to agree it was better they were gone. But few seemed to remember that the threat of pirate raids remained. And for all the soldiers’ faults, they offered at least some kind of defence.
She had brought up this very issue at the last town hall meeting and had been met with resounding agreement. It left them vulnerable, and they should all do something about it. It was then Sancha had proposed her wild idea—if the army couldn’t watch the coast, then the pueblo would have to take it upon themselves to do it. This, too, was met with resounding agreement and lots of passionate discussion afterwards.
But it was during the days following, when Sancha went round to all the houses in town to sign the men up to a roster of watch duty, that she learned few of them had any interest. A lot of excuses were made, and no one seemed to have the time. Yet these same men could find the time to sit in the tavern and drink for hours.
In the end, there was no one in town willing to give up a precious night of sleep to watch the coastline. So there was nothing else for it. Sancha would have to do it herself.
She couldn’t do it every night, of course. A couple of nights a week at the most. And her days were already overfilled with taking care of her family, so the tower would have to sit empty then as well.
So it wasn’t perfect, but she couldn’t let the tower sit empty all the time. It wasn’t right. Somebody had to do it, so it might as well be her.
Besides, there was one advantage to such work that she was becoming blissfully aware of—she was alone. She couldn’t remember the last time she was alone. It was so quiet up here, with no children tugging at her skirt and no parents to worry about. Whatever was going on in her house, there was nothing she could do from here, so she might as well not worry about it.
Which left her free to indulge in her own thoughts, uninterrupted, for the first time since she was younger. She loved her family and would do anything for them. She never for a moment regretted get
ting married and having her beautiful children.
But it was nice, just once a week or so, to have a few hours to herself.
THE END
Did You Enjoy It?
Readers like you can make a big difference in the lives of authors like me. Our novels depend on reviews to get noticed by new readers and by leaving one, you help me to continue my career and most importantly, get writing that next book.
So if you did enjoy this book and you have a few moments to spare me, please leave an honest review on Amazon by clicking here.
Thank you.
Also by Jefferson Bonar
A Murder Most Spanish
Armada is called to the coastal town of Salobreña to investigate the brutal murder of a labourer during the sugar cane harvest. What appears at first to be a crime of passion soon becomes a vast conspiracy involving the most powerful men in town and a mysterious woman whose disappearance leads Armada to a crime committed long ago.
Available now: US UK
A Murder Most Literate
Armada enters the world of academia after a professor at one of Spain’s most prestigious universities is stabbed in his office. When Armada finds evidence the professor may have been involved with fighters for the Portuguese war of independence, there is no shortage of suspects to investigate. But only one of them seems to be lying about who they really are.
Coming soon!
Quote Citations
Calderón de la Barca, Pedro. The Constant Prince.
Translated by Denis Florence MacCarthy, Esq. London: Charles Dolman, 1853.
Calderón de la Barca, Pedro. Life’s a Dream.
Translated by Adrian Mitchell and John Barton.
Bristol: WBC Print Ltd., 1990.
De Vega, Lope. Justice Without Revenge.
Translated by Jill Booty. New York: Hill and
Wang Inc., 1961.
For Tennyson, who I hope will always look on this world with hopeful eyes.
About the Author
Jefferson began his career in the film industry, writing and directing numerous short and feature-length films that played at film festivals all over the world. He attained his degree in feature film screenwriting from the University of London, Royal Holloway in 2010 and put it immediately to work by ditching film altogether and deciding he’d be happier writing novels.
He then wrote two novels of little note in a genre that didn’t suit him before moving to the south of Spain with his new family in 2015. It was here he discovered a love of history in a country with a rich and tumultuous past, the reverberations of which were felt in nearly every corner of the globe. And it was on this fertile ground that a new character, a new setting, and a new genre were realised.
Jefferson now spends his time writing, spending time with his family, and wondering if he’ll ever have time to get to the beach.
Domingo Armada series Omnibus Page 53
