“You have no idea how close I came to it.”
Armada wrestled his gaze away from Lucas, staring at the horizon instead. An old instinct had come bubbling up from the depths for just a moment when he’d felt the blade against Jose’s neck. He could picture so easily how much force would have been required to slash open Jose’s throat. The feeling of resistance against the blade, the sound of slicing flesh, the blood, spilling over his hand. It had been so vivid, so easy to imagine, an ease born of experience. It frightened Armada how easily Jose had exposed the struggle within his soul, one that he had spent his entire adult life trying to hide.
“It’s also to celebrate. The end of the case, and the arresting of a murderer.”
The memories were now boiling up from below. Memories, which like a trodden viper, turn and fix a fang in me not sharp enough to slay at once, but with a lingering death infect my life.
A quote from Calderón’s Painter of His Own Dishonour and one that was never far from Armada’s mind. Although he’d never said it out loud to Lucas. Nor would he ever. For this one was too personal to share. This one was his and his alone.
Armada then turned and headed to the tavern. For once, he hoped Lucas would not follow. He silently pleaded for Lucas to head back to the inn and have a quiet evening. Armada was in no mood to be in control.
But the footsteps over his shoulder told Armada that wasn’t going to happen tonight.
Chapter Twenty-One
Lucas was tempted to drink his ale, but didn’t dare. Not yet. It was a rare moment. Armada had been careful not to let Lucas loose in a tavern, lest he be swayed by the vice of drinking. He’d dreamed about it, as all young boys had. It seemed like a great deal of fun. And now here he was, sitting in a tavern, unsupervised and with a bit of money in his pocket. And an ale that was purchased for him, ready to go.
And yet, he couldn’t. Not because he didn’t want to. But because he worried for the man who bought it for him.
The next table over, the conversation had become gregarious indeed. Armada was seated in the middle of one of the long tables, surrounded by many other men. They were all shouting, or laughing, while Armada showcased his skill with a dagger. He flipped it about with his fingertips, from one hand to the next, and ended his demonstration by tossing the dagger into the air and having it land in his cup.
The dagger wasn’t Armada’s, of course. It had been anonymously produced when he’d asked the room for one after boasting for half an hour about his skills. Everything about Armada tonight was unsettling. He was trying too hard, it seemed to Lucas. He knew what it looked like when Armada had fun, and this wasn’t it. The best time he’d seen the old man have was during Corpus Christi in Madrid, when he’d taken Lucas to see the auto sacramental, the biggest theatre production of the year, a lavish, church-financed one that told the story of the Virgin Mary. Lucas had been told about several of the very famous actresses involved, all of whom were buried under what appeared to be several hundred layers of makeup and costume, so that there was little chance of Lucas recognising them in real life.
But to Armada, it had been pure heaven to watch. Very little sherry, or anything else, had been drunk that day. And Armada had spent weeks finding excuses to bring up the production in conversation, driving everyone at the Brotherhood offices crazy. There had been a twinkle in his eye that Lucas had rarely seen.
Tonight, there was no hint of a twinkle. Instead, there was shouting, and laughter, and pats on the back of strangers, treating them as if they were the very closest of friends. Armada spoke of many things he usually despised, such as money, status, or the experience of being in the Brotherhood. Many barbs and insults were traded around, which Armada returned in kind before the table erupted into another round of laughter.
And the drinks kept coming as the night wore on, the laughter becoming louder. Lucas knew it would turn ugly soon. How could it not? There was nowhere else for the fun to go.
Just before midnight, it happened. One of the men said that familiar phrase that every Brother was greeted by wherever they went these days – a buenas horas, mangas verdes! All in good time, Greensleeves. A reference to the reputation Brothers had of taking so long to show up to investigate a crime such that the matter had either been resolved by the locals or had become irrelevant, as well as referring to the sleeves of green dye that every Brother was required to wear, identifying them wherever they went.
It was a gentle barb, to be sure, but one that had become so incessant over the years that some Brothers had little patience for it. Armada usually ignored it, telling Lucas once it was a way for the townspeople to push back against what they saw as an organisation over which they had little control. It was an important feeling, Armada said. It released the anger, so that it didn’t build up into outright rebellion.
Tonight, however, this was somehow forgotten.
Armada’s face broke out into a broad grin. “Is that all you see when you look upon me?” he said to one of the men in the group. “The sleeves? Nothing but a nameless, faceless member of the Holy Brotherhood? Do you not see a man underneath them? Because there is one. Here, I’ll show you.”
Armada ripped off his leather jacket, then tore off the signature green shirt he always wore, the buttons jangling as they hit the stone ground. He was now shirtless, the many scars of his skin plain for all to see.
“I am a man. You see?! The sleeves have come off!” Armada shouted. The other men were unsure of how to react. One man laughed and the others took the cue to join him, trying to find the humour. But Lucas wasn’t laughing. Armada wasn’t doing this as a joke. In fact, Lucas wondered just how much control Armada had at this point. Something Jose had said had wounded him somehow, and this was Armada feeling the pain. But how far would it go? How deep did the wound really go?
The barman watched closely, pushing his way slowly through the crowd, ready to jump in if needed.
“They have come off!” Armada shouted.
“Sir,” Lucas said quietly. “Perhaps we should leave.”
Armada moved toward the man again, coming within an arm’s length of him. “Tell me that again. Only use my name this time. Domingo Armada. Not constable, not Greensleeves, and especially not soldier.”
This received a confused look from Armada’s opponent.
“Just my name.”
“You’re mad,” the man said. He was a labourer, as many of the men were. And quite large, with a great deal of muscle piled on top of his shoulders, muscles built up from years of cutting cane. The same muscles that could be used to throw a punch.
“Go on.” The fun had seeped away from Armada’s expression. There was only hostility now. Confrontation. Armada wasn’t about to let this man off the hook, not for anything. Lucas counted up how many ales Armada must have had, an amount he wasn’t used to. Was it the drink, Lucas wondered? Or was he seeing a more honest side to Armada that he rarely, if ever, displayed? Was this the man that was always bubbling away below the surface of Armada’s calm exterior?
The labourer glanced around the tavern to see everyone’s eyes on him. The tavern had gone almost completely quiet.
“A buenas horas…” the man said as the tension built in the room. “Greensleeves.”
Lucas wasn’t sure what happened next. He saw a flash of movement and suddenly Armada and the man were wrestling on the ground. The room erupted into shouting and the barman shoved Lucas aside to get to the heart of the action. A chair broke in two, there was blood on the floor, and Lucas saw the glint of metal in the middle of the melee.
Before Lucas knew it, he was being grabbed and shoved outside along with Armada. The barman was ruthless with his grip and didn’t let go until they were stumbling about in the dark near where the cart was parked. The barman then tossed Armada outside, who fell to the ground like a sack of flour. Lucas raced over to him as the tavern inside exploded into laughter and shouting.
The crowd inside was now calling out the phrase out over and over, as if tr
ying to keep the confrontation going. But Armada was in no condition to take them on. Lucas gathered his shirt and leather coat from where the barman had tossed them on the ground, then put a shoulder under Armada and helped him into the back of their cart. The drink now seemed to weigh heavily on Armada, and he had trouble focusing, stumbling about as if he were blind.
Lucas managed to get Armada into a sitting position on the back of the cart and went to help him put his shirt back on.
But Armada held up his arm in protest. “Keep that shirt off me, Lucas. Never put it on me again.”
“Sir, it’s the only one you have right now. Maybe just wear it until we get back to the…”
“Never again!” Armada screamed, then his head bobbed back and forth, his whole body threatening to topple over.
Lucas left Armada bare-chested, hopped into the front of the cart and pulled away from the tavern, where some of the drunk patrons stood about in the doorway, laughing and taunting Armada with insults.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Early the next morning, Lucas awoke to a rustling sound. He sat up in bed to see Armada standing at the window, possibly having been there for hours, gazing at the people moving about below.
Lucas couldn’t help but notice that Armada was wearing his green shirt and sleeveless leather jacket, and had combed back his long locks of grey hair, smartening himself up. Considering his condition the night before, Lucas was surprised to even see Armada standing. But there seemed to be no hangover, no headache, none of the usual maladies one felt the morning after a heavy drinking session. Instead, there was just melancholy. Lucas wondered if Armada had slept at all.
“Good morning, sir,” Lucas said.
“You know, it’s very strange, Lucas. I have been standing here for so long trying to think of the perfect quote to summarise all this—Calderón, Molina, Lope de Vega. For the life of me, I can’t think of a single one.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Lucas said, unsure of what else to say.
“I’m so tired, Lucas. I feel as though I haven’t slept properly in twenty years. Every night, I spend running. Running from the memories, running from who I was…who I am… And I don’t know how much longer I can do it. You saw Jose. He stopped running. And he became a murderer.”
“You’re not Jose Padilla, sir.”
“I wish I could be sure,” Armada said, more to himself than Lucas.
“Sir, perhaps you could—”
Lucas was interrupted by a loud knocking at the door.
“Armada! Wake up in there!”
Lucas opened the door to find Pablo Ortega glowering at him. “Is Armada in there?”
Without waiting for an answer, Ortega pushed his way into the room and marched over to Armada.
“Tell me it isn’t true,” Ortega said. “Tell me you didn’t let that morisco go.”
“Of course I did. He is innocent,” Armada said.
“The barman told me all about your little incident at the tavern. He’s an old and very dear friend, and is thinking of suing you for damages. A lawsuit, by the way, I’d be happy to support him on.”
“I can only apologise and will, of course, take full responsibility for any damages,” Armada said. “It was a joyous celebration that got out of hand.”
“Celebration?” Ortega asked.
“Yes. The right man has been arrested for Amparo Rodriguez’s murder.”
“You arrested someone else? Who?”
“Jose Padilla,” Armada said calmly.
“Jose Padilla? Are you mad, Armada?! Jose Padilla is a respectable member of this pueblo. My family has known his family my entire life. He is an Old Christian and a family man. There is no way he would do something like this. I demand you let him go right now!”
“Would you like to know why I suspect him?”
“I don’t really care, Armada! Because I already know who killed Amparo. It was that morisco! Everything in this pueblo was fine until that filth came to town! How do you not see that? You hang this man by the neck in front of God and everyone and you’ll see! Everything in this town will go back to normal! And the quicker you do it the better!”
“You may be interested in hearing this, alcalde,” Armada said. He poured two glasses of sherry from his barrel in the corner.
“Sherry?”
Ortega said nothing as Armada handed him a glass.
“The conspiracy involves you, as it happens. You see, Jose was stealing water from land that you own just to the south of his field.”
Ortega drank from his glass.
“And Jose killed Amparo Rodriguez to keep him from telling you about it. Amparo was trying to blackmail him, you see.”
Ortega considered this for a moment, then let a smile creep across his face.
“That’s your theory? That’s why you’ve arrested my good friend Jose Padilla?”
“It is.”
“Well, that shows how little you know about the people in this pueblo, Armada,” Ortega said. “You see, Amparo is too stupid to blackmail anyone. If you’d ever met him, you’d know he couldn’t think things like this through properly. He was never one for political strategy. There is no way he could have pulled that off. And Jose I’ve known my entire life and have never, ever known him to mistreat or kill anyone or anything. That comes from experience. Same goes for everyone in this town. Which leaves only one suspect.”
“A suspect I’ve gotten to know better than you, alcalde.”
“I know these moriscos better than you know, Armada. I’ve met enough of them. Now listen to me. The corregidor in Granada is an old friend of mine. We went to university at Salamanca together. He’s a good man. And also the one in charge of disseminating tax revenues collected in Granada, including those that your chapter of the Brotherhood depends on. And I would hate to have to inform him of how those funds are being abused. So I would appreciate it if you do your job, charge that morisco for murder like you were supposed to, and stop causing so much trouble in my town. Am I clear?”
Ortega threw his sherry glass across the room, then stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
“Well now, that was interesting,” Armada said.
“Sir?” said Lucas.
Armada found the glass Ortega had thrown, amazed it had not broken.
“Surprisingly little reaction by the alcalde to being told he was being stolen from,” Armada said. “Which means either he already knew about it, or cares very little. In either case, it begs the question –—why would Jose Padilla kill a man to keep Ortega from finding out?”
Armada wiped the glass clean and carefully put it away in his bag. “Lucas, did you ever manage to find out if he owned any other lands besides the fallow field?”
“Oh, yes, sir.” Lucas had nearly forgotten in the events of the last two days. He raced over to his satchel and pulled out some papers. He shuffled through them, then spread them out on the table.
“He owns two other fields besides the one with the spring, both of which he bought about twenty years ago. It was hard to pinpoint exactly where they are as the records aren’t very good. But they’re all nearby.”
“Did you find out what he’s doing with them?”
“He’s kept them leased out to local farmers the whole time. And it’s been very lucrative for him,” Lucas said. He pointed to three names he’d scribbled down. “These are the current leaseholders.”
“And yet his original inheritance he lets grow fallow. A field with that most precious of commodities — its own supply of fresh water. A man like Ortega, who is ambitious and always on the hunt for ways to enrich himself leaves it be all this time. Nor does he mind that it’s being stolen. And, wait, Lucas. How long ago did you say he bought those newer tracts?”
“Twenty years, sir.”
“That’s another curious number, isn’t it? Do we know who Ortega bought these tracts from? Who were the previous owners?”
“The records were missing, sir.”
“Missing?” Armada sa
id. “Destroyed by accident, would you say? Or removed?”
“Definitely not destroyed, sir.”
“Well, Pablo Ortega’s life certainly took a turn for the better twenty years ago, didn’t it? I’d be curious to know what happened.”
Armada paced until he returned to the sherry barrel. He was tempted to pour himself a glass, but resisted, setting the glass on the table.
“You could ask his wife, sir.”
“No. There is a more important question to be answered first,” Armada said. “And that is whether blackmail truly was the cause of all this, or if there was something else. If Jose really was on the edge of losing everything he loved, that is a worry that would have been difficult to hide, especially from those closest to him. He would have behaved strangely. He is a lot of things, but not a good actor. I need to confirm what he was thinking in the days leading up to the crime. And there is only one person I can think of who can tell me that.”
Armada put down his empty glass and picked up his coat.
“Sir,” Lucas said, catching Armada at the door. “Are you feeling all right?”
Armada stared at the ground and sighed.
“Of course not,” Armada said. “I feel ill from all the ale last night. My elbow is throbbing, which I can only assume was an injury sustained after being tossed from the tavern, an event for which I have no memory. I am embarrassed at the fool I made of myself and deeply regret having let you come along to see it all. I am, however, thankful you saved the shirt.”
“Really, sir?”
“It’s the only one I have left.”
Lucas nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Armada then disappeared out the door.
Chapter Twenty-Three
A short while later, Armada stood in front of the door to the Padilla home, ready for anything. On the other side was Jose Padilla’s wife Esmerelda, whose family Armada had just torn to shreds. In a small pueblo like this, rumours of Jose’s guilt could taint all of their lives for generations, no matter how the case turned out. Her children would be grappling with them, and possibly their children.
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