“Were these fights with anyone in particular?”
“There’s been so many over the years, I couldn’t narrow it down. Amparo was a real hijo de puta sometimes. And that’s coming from a friend.”
“How was his funeral? The man was so hated. Did anyone attend?”
“Of course they did!” Jose said, angrily. “That church was full, like it is for anyone in this pueblo who passes away. The people here are good honest Christians. It doesn’t matter how you were in life, they mourn you because you were part of this community, no matter what.”
Armada was pleased. He was hoping his incendiary question would rile up Jose. He needed to get the man’s blood pumping if he wanted any hope of reaching the truth. It was obvious Jose had been stressed lately, and if he could somehow get him to release it, the truth might spill out.
“What about Miguel Guillen? Would everyone go to his funeral?”
“Not if Ortega had anything to do with it.”
“What about you?”
Jose hesitated. “Of course not. The man’s a killer.”
Armada was surprised. Jose’s anger had drained away so quickly. There was only one emotion Armada knew of that could do that —guilt.
“And you know this for a fact?”
“My testimony was included in the letter Ortega sent to the Brotherhood. It’s all in there.”
“Those were the alcalde’s words. Now I want to hear you describe the events of that day in your own.”
“I don’t have the time, Constable,” Jose said.
“Neither does Miguel Guillen. In his condition, he won’t last long in that castle. A week, maybe two. They rarely feed him, and the beatings will only get worse.”
“Are you going to arrest me?” Jose asked. “Because if not, I need to get back to my field. I have an inexperienced crew who could have set half the delta on fire by now.”
Jose held out his wrists, as if readying them to be clasped in irons. Armada would have loved nothing more than to arrest this man. But he remembered Jose’s earlier comment about being in the army. Throwing him in a cell would do little to encourage him to give Armada the truth. Some men were broken by army life, while others were hardened by it. It wasn’t difficult to work out which of those Jose was.
“No,” Armada said.
“Then you’ll have to excuse me,” Jose said.
As Armada watched him walk away, he realised he was left with a choice. There was another way to reach Jose Padilla, but it meant playing a dangerous game. For to get a glimpse at the deepest, darkest corners of Jose’s mind, where the truth might lie, Armada had to risk delving into his own. It was the only way to determine whether Jose’s words were gold or silver, and to know if Miguel truly was Amparo Rodriguez’s killer.
There was only one choice.
“Is this how you treated your fellow soldiers?” Armada called after him. “Abandoning them to their own fate when they needed you most?”
Jose stopped, then turned around. “Were you ever a proper soldier? You Brotherhood men, do you fight in battles? No. You drink your way around the countryside collecting fees and intimidating peasants for your amusement. But you don’t know what real battle is, do you?”
“On the contrary,” Armada said. “Like you, I spent my youth watching my fellow countryman die of disease, knowing only starvation and fear, just waiting for our enemies to rain death upon our heads at any moment. Like you, I had to look Spain’s enemies in the eyes only to find that they were just frightened children, just like us. Like you, I will never forget their faces. Never.”
Armada felt his hand begin to tremble as the memories seeped into his mind. He tried to ignore them. It was crucial to keep a clear head. But his heart was already racing.
Jose could see Armada’s hand from where he stood. There was a glint of recognition in his eye. Jose knew what it meant. He had seen the trembling before. And if it wasn’t happening to him yet, it was plain to see Jose feared it would one day.
Armada had made his move. Now it was time for Jose to make his.
Chapter Eleven
After a while, Miguel just assumed he deserved to be here. How else could he explain it? God had put him in this tiny cell, where he had to constantly shift his gangly body in a futile effort to ward off the severe cramping for even a few minutes. The soldiers had ceased bothering to light the torch on the wall, which meant he spent much of his time now in near total darkness, his eyes just able to make out the outlines of the bars on his cell from the ambient light spilling in from around the edges of the one door in the windowless room. The air was putrid and damp and made his head ache, and thirst was becoming a constant companion.
Miguel had spent nearly every minute of his time going over the events of that fateful day, trying to remember. But it was impossible. His memory had gone blank. One moment he was standing in the field, working as always, and trying to suppress the desire to beg Amparo for forgiveness. Not because he didn’t want it, but because he knew Jose would be upset at him for not working. Miguel had already gotten in trouble once with Jose when he’d hit Amparo. He didn’t want to risk getting fired from the crew altogether.
Then there was blackness. And when he awoke, Jose was coming toward him and…and Amparo was already…
The thought was almost too frightening to recall. The picture of Amparo lying there was so vivid in his mind, why could he not remember how he got there? Miguel could recall every other detail about that moment — how he was sitting, what the clearing looked like, and the feeling of the tears streaming down his cheeks as he hugged his knees. He could also remember the fear that coursed through his veins, the sudden shock of something so horrifying and tragic, something he never thought he’d see in his life.
And that moment when Jose asked him what he’d done, and Miguel had realised there was a chance he could have been the culprit.
But the moment of actually plunging the knife into Amparo’s chest…that was gone. He tried to imagine himself doing it, picturing how he must have stood, what he and Amparo must have argued about. But it didn’t help. The memory just wasn’t there. It was just a blank space.
Could it be because the memory of what he’d done was too horrifying to remember? In which case, was he truly a killer? Miguel preferred to be dead rather than sitting in this cell, wondering. Many times he’d considered taking his own life, but with no rope or blade, he wouldn’t know how to do it. Instead he had to just wait for the rotting food, lack of water, or neglect to do it for him.
Miguel’s only hope was the constable from the Brotherhood with the funny name. Armada. He seemed to think Miguel was innocent. But based on what? The man had never met Miguel before, and yet had seemed to know so much about him. Was it possible? Miguel didn’t dare hope the constable was right. Hope was not something he could let himself have right now. He may not deserve it.
Miguel realised he must have fallen asleep, for he was suddenly startled awake by the sound of the door to the room swinging open. A soldier had come. But he wasn’t holding the little tin plate that held Miguel’s food and water, which he served to Miguel like a dog. Miguel figured it must mean the soldier had become bored in the middle of another tedious shift and was there to entertain himself by beating Miguel a bit more. Miguel closed his eyes and curled up his body, waiting for the ear-splitting sound of metal squeaking as his door opened and when the blows would begin.
“Get up, morisco! You have a visitor!”
Miguel figured the constable must have returned. Did he have news? Or had he come to take Miguel to the gallows? Either option would be better than staying here, Miguel thought as he scrambled to his feet.
The soldier lit the torch on the wall and the room suddenly filled with a flickering orange light for the first time in days. Miguel found he was dizzy on his feet and his legs tingled so badly that he rubbed them furiously for a few moments.
Then the sound of footsteps on the staircase just behind the door. Someone came into the ro
om and approached the cell. As the figure stepped into the light, Miguel could see it was not the constable at all.
It was a woman. And a stunning one. She was older than Miguel, but not by much. Her long brown hair had been tied up behind her head with a ribbon, with just a few strands left behind to frame her long face and delicate features. She wore a beautiful red satin dress, wrapped tightly about the middle with a bodice that was neatly tied in a bow, revealing her slender figure. Her expensive shoes clopped on the greasy stone floor as she stepped into the torchlight and gazed at Miguel with mesmerising brown eyes.
Miguel didn’t dare say anything. He didn’t want to ruin this moment with the ignorant words that threatened to spill out of his mouth. He hadn’t been expecting a visitor, especially one so beautiful, and suddenly felt embarrassed by his appearance.
The woman glanced over her shoulder at the soldier, who took his cue to leave the room. And suddenly they were alone.
“Do you know who I am?” the woman asked.
“No,” Miguel whispered.
“Amparo Rodriguez…he was…my husband,” the woman said. “My name is Madalena.”
Miguel noticed her cheeks were stained with tears, which she wiped from her face with a small kerchief balled up in her right hand.
“I’m…I’m sorry…” was all Miguel could say.
“I wasn’t sure I was going to find the strength to come today,” Madalena said. “I have hardly left the house since it happened. It’s just been too hard to see anybody. I can’t help but think of my dear Amparo day and night, and it reduces me to tears every time. What people must think of me…”
Madalena threatened to lose her composure, but took a few short breaths and continued.
“I gave up my life for that man. I gave up everything. And now he’s gone. I still can’t quite believe it.”
The sound of Madalena breathing was the only sound in the room. Miguel felt he didn’t dare move, or speak, or even breathe.
“I don’t know what to think anymore,” Madalena said. “Every night I go to sleep, and I can’t help but dream of my beloved Amparo. I wake up and I can feel him there with me, everywhere I go. The memory of him will always be with me, until the day I die. Now everyone in the pueblo expects me to mourn. To start learning to live without him, but how can I? I don’t even know why he was taken from me.”
Madalena moved closer to Miguel’s cell and he caught a whiff of jasmine from her skin.
“I realised you were the only one who could tell me that. I beg you now. Please. If you killed my husband, just tell me why. Release me from my torment.”
Say nothing, Jose had said. Not even to her.
“I…I don’t know…” Miguel said. “I can’t remember.”
“You don’t remember taking the life of an innocent man? How much of a monster are you?”
“I’m sorry…” Miguel said. It sounded weak to his own ears, but Madalena seemed to accept it. He was glad she didn’t press him. Miguel wasn’t sure he could keep up his resolve. He felt too much pity for her.
Madalena gazed at the torchlight, which lit the edge of her face and made it glow a rich orange hue, the flames reflecting in her eyes and highlighting her sad expression.
“I know about the job you and Amparo did together,” she finally said after a long pause. “You know, the work you did at night for Jose so the rest of the town wouldn’t know. Amparo told me all about it.”
Miguel became nervous now. How could Amparo tell her about that? They had all promised not to say anything.
“Was that why you killed him? I would understand if it was…”
“I…” Miguel began.
Not even to her. Especially not to her. Jose’s words rang louder in his ear.
“I told you…I can’t remember…”
Madalena suddenly turned toward him, her eyes blazing with frustration. He could not imagine the sadness and loss she must be feeling. He wouldn’t have blamed her if she’d brought a dagger of her own to get vengeance for her husband. No one in the pueblo would blame her, not even the constable.
“That’s not good enough!” she said. Madalena then bowed her head and composed herself again. “It’s just…no one thinks to tell the widow anything. Not even the constable. And yet it’s always the widow that suffers the most. Why is it no one thinks to do anything to help alleviate my pain?”
“I wish I could…” Miguel said, feeling tears come to his own eyes. He vowed the next time he saw Jose to tell him about what Madalena was going through. Surely, it would be all right if he told her something.
“Then just tell me anything. What about the job you worked with Amparo. Start there. Where were you? What were you doing? Did Amparo do anything then to anger you?”
“No, nothing like that. I don’t remember. I mean, he was…” Miguel said, but stopped himself. It felt wrong somehow to go into all the ways Amparo had taunted and teased him. He couldn’t disrespect the dead. His mother had taught him that was wrong.
“He didn’t do anything,” Miguel finally said. “He didn’t…”
Miguel was becoming confused and his head started to swim. His legs began to buckle and he felt the need to lie down.
Before he knew it, he was on the floor, his head banging on the iron bars of his cell.
“Miguel!” Madalena said, rushing over. She reached through the bars, thinking little of the sleeves of her red satin dress being sullied by the grease, and helped him up to a sitting position.
“Please, just tell me something,” she whispered. Footsteps came clattering down the staircase and the soldier burst in through the door. “Just tell me where…”
“Is everything alright?” the soldier asked and came rushing over. “Did he hurt you?”
The soldier tore Madalena away from the cell and shoved Miguel away from the bars.
“No! Stop! He didn’t hurt me. He just fell down,” Madalena said. She pushed her way past the soldier and over to the bars.
“Are you all right, Miguel?”
Miguel had ended up on his back and the room was still spinning. He wondered if he was going to be ill, which would be humiliating in the presence of such a beautiful woman as Madalena. She didn’t deserve to be here, to be looking upon a rat like him, and to risk soiling her dress. She deserved to be in the back of a beautiful four-wheeled coach being pulled by magnificent horses with a well-dressed coachman, like a princess in the books his mother used to read to him.
“Miguel…”
Miguel’s mind began to drift and he pictured himself as her coachman, wearing a grand cape that flowed along behind him while he whipped the reins of the horses as they raced through an enchanted forest, beckoning them on faster and faster as the princess had an important appointment with the king and the country’s fate hung in the balance.
The image became more and more vivid until it enveloped Miguel completely. When he finally awoke, the room had gone pitch black again. The beautiful widow Madalena was gone, the torch had been extinguished, and the door was now shut.
Miguel couldn’t help but wonder which part had been the dream. Or if all of it had been. It had seemed so real.
Miguel lay back down on the cold stones, ignoring his rumbling stomach and aching head, and dreamed of the woman in the red satin dress.
Chapter Twelve
Jose gazed at Armada’s trembling hand, which Armada did not attempt to hide now, and turned toward him.
“So, you were a soldier…” Jose said.
“For much of my youth,” Armada said. “It’s what made me the man I am today, for better or worse.”
There was recognition in Jose’s eyes. He knew exactly what Armada was talking about and probably had a very similar story to tell. Armada suddenly felt a strange kinship with the man. It was a kinship one always felt when you met another who had seen the same horrors you had. There was something in the human mind that sought out such kindred spirits, for the experience of war was impossible to describe to those who
had not been through it. In another life, under different circumstances, Armada felt the two of them could possibly have even become friends, spending long nights at the tavern drowning in ale and swapping war stories. This always helped to alleviate the chilling fear that it had all been one long nightmare and that it wasn’t memories that plagued a former soldier’s sleep, but madness. Because how could such horrors exist in God’s world? It somehow helped to know at least someone out there understood. And he had little doubt that Jose felt the same way.
But something held Jose back. He was still on his guard, careful not to reveal too much.
“Come with me,” Jose said without emotion, then turned and continued down the lane toward the main plaza.
Armada followed, unsure of what to expect. Jose led him through the plaza and down the steep decline on the other side, which dumped them on to the access road leading to the delta. The two men said little as they walked, with Jose always a few paces ahead, sure to keep his back to him. Armada knew the man was strategizing, needing time to think. How much was safe to reveal? It usually wasn’t wise for Armada to let witnesses have such time, as it meant letting them find ways to spin the truth to their own advantage, rather than just spitting it out honestly. But Armada counted himself lucky that Jose was willing to speak at all. Whatever the man had to say, it was better than nothing.
They were crossing the delta now, cutting through a well-worn track that was heading straight for Jose’s field. In the corner of this field sat a cortijo that was obviously their destination. It was unlike most cortijos, which were typically just one-room sheds cobbled together out of local stone used to lock up a farmer’s valuable tools and give them a shady place to wait out the worst of the afternoon heat. As they approached, Armada could see this cortijo had multiple rooms, as well as a large covered patio off the front where a long wood table with matching benches stood. The table was obviously built with a large family in mind, one that probably came on Sundays after mass for a boisterous meal, with plenty of laughing and drinking of wine that would go late into the night.
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