by Jana Petken
Garcia nodded.
“He’s a fine boy,” Luis said.
His eyes watered with happiness. “In the morning, announcements will be made. I want written notices on the church’s walls. Father Bernardo must celebrate the baby’s arrival with a Mass. Bells shall toll, heralding the news of a new heir.”
His worries were over. His father by law, the inquisitor, was going to shower him with gifts and favours. The Peráto line was secure. He could now forget about his mad wife. She could rot in her chambers until she drew her last breath, for all he cared. “Praise be to God. This is a miracle.”
Putting the tip of his finger into the infant’s mouth, he laughed when he felt soft gums sucking it. “You’re strong, my son. But you must be eager to taste your mother’s milk.” Still smiling, he handed the baby back to Garcia. “Take him to my wife’s ladies. It’s time to see if the duchess has milk or if her scrawny body can’t even produce that. Come straight back. We have other business to attend to.”
Luis looked once more at his dead son. He kissed its forehead and then covered its face. After tonight, he’d erase all memory of the dead infant. It would not be baptised, or receive burial rights. He didn’t know where its un-Christian soul would go, but he was thankful that he wouldn’t see it in heaven. He sighed with relief. It had been a difficult and heartbreaking night, but it had ended splendidly.
“So did everything go exactly to plan? I want to know the details,” Luis said to Garcia after he’d returned.
Garcia shrugged and spread his arms. “It went as well as we had hoped. All was taken care of, just as you asked. Sanz assured me that no one saw or heard him entering or leaving the infant’s home. The mother and father are dead, as is their other child.”
“Good.”
Looking uncomfortable, Garcia continued. “Your Grace, there is something you should know …”
“What?”
“Sanz disobeyed your orders. He removed the other child’s body from the house and buried it on the hill. It was a girl.”
“He did what?”
“He thought that two missing children would appear more palatable than one. I’m not fond of the man, but his assumptions have merit.”
Luis slumped angrily in a chair. He had specifically ordered that there be no loose ends. “Is the girl dead beyond doubt? Can you give me that assurance?”
“Yes, Your Grace, without a doubt. The militiaman told me that he buried her deep in the ground.”
“And you believed him?” Luis asked angrily.
“I had no choice but to trust him.”
Looking pensive, Luis said, “We will speak of his disobedience later. Did you give him the coin?”
Garcia shifted his feet nervously. “I urged him to take the purse, but he refused. He’s insolent for one so common. He also appeared weighed down by guilt. I worry he might want to confess what he did, and that could prove disastrous.”
A look of surprise crossed Luis’s face. Sanz had insulted him, shown his disapproval, as though he had a right to have an opinion. “What fool has the gall to refuse my money?” he asked, unable to believe Garcia. “I offered him more ducats than he’s probably seen in his entire lifetime. He has disrespected me … the arrogant swine. Can he be trusted to keep his mouth shut?”
Garcia appeared to be undecided. “You have a son safely delivered to you, and I’m certain there are no witnesses alive to make accusations against you – but no, I’m not sure you should trust him.”
“Christ’s blood!”
“Your Grace, might I suggest you have him killed? It’s the only way to guarantee his silence.”
“No,” Luis answered, albeit reluctantly. He needed the militia and their loyalty. They still adhered to the oaths of the brotherhood, an ancient close-knit family of men-at-arms, sworn to protect each other above all else. Years ago, they had been all-powerful, managing their own criminal courts and dishing up punishments. In Castile, they were still highly respected and feared. Their fealty to each other was well known.
“No, that would not be prudent,” he repeated. “The other militiamen saw Sanz being summoned to my chambers. Even now they will be wondering what I wanted with him. Sanz’s death would raise suspicion. There will be enough chaos in the coming days. He lives.”
“What about the suspicion surrounding your physician? Questions will be asked,” Garcia said.
Luis wagged his index finger. “No. Cabrera was well known and respected, but my militia will not question his death. On the other hand, they will not take kindly to one of their own dying suddenly without proper explanation. I need these men, Garcia. Marauders coming in from the sea are ransacking towns, and there are criminals taking advantage of the monarchs’ lengthy absences from Valencia. Sagrat is well defended against thieves running around the countryside, but only because of my militia’s presence. Sanz lives … for the moment.”
“Maybe we should have used our mercenaries tonight,” Garcia offered.
“And have that thieving scum touching my new son? They’d have the tunic off my back and burn this town were it not for the coin I put in their fat pockets. I could never trust them with such personal matters.
“I specifically used Sanz because he serves me. He is duty-bound to keep his mouth shut. And even if he feels no loyalty to me, he will do what’s necessary to protect his family.” Luis had thought briefly about this. There was no guarantee that Sanz would keep his tongue still. In an unguarded moment, he could blurt out the truth about what he’d done, whether to his family or, God forbid, to Captain Tur. “I want Sanz’s family moved into the town. We need to keep a close eye on them, and Sanz has to know that we are watching them. You must find a way to make this happen.”
“I can’t imagine how they could be persuaded to leave their farm,” Garcia said, “unless their farm were to burn to the ground.”
Luis smiled. That was not a bad idea. “The townspeople will be in an uproar tomorrow when they find out about the infant’s family. Perhaps we should add to their burdens and give them something else to think about – a diversion, perhaps.”
“A diversion?”
“Yes, more tragedies. What could be more tragic than marauders attacking defenceless homes on the plain before stealing into the town to commit murder? They’re known to have ice in their veins. It would not be beyond their dark souls to kill a mother and father and abduct their two children. We need suspects … or did you not think about that?”
Garcia shook his head and spread his lips in a rare genuine smile. “What an excellent idea, Your Grace,” he said.
“Yes, it is. It seems we have need of the mercenaries tonight after all. Make sure they visit Sanz’s family first … but no killings and no wounding. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Are your men close by?”
“Our contact in town is always at hand. I will dispatch him with a message to the mercenary leader immediately.”
Luis nodded. “Call them up. Set them to task. I want this business concluded before dawn. Do you understand?”
Sergio nodded and grinned with pleasure.
Luis picked up his dead child and kissed his forehead one last time. “Take it. Bury it and never mention it to me again. I’m going to spend time with my son … Jaime. He shall be named Jaime.
Chapter Nine
It had taken David quite a while to reach his family’s home. He’d carried the child in his arms, running part of the way, and she hadn’t cried or whimpered for her parents. In the Jewry, he’d found her curled in a ball fast asleep and in the exact same spot he’d left her. The streets were empty. The procession had dispersed, and most of the townspeople were feasting inside their homes. When he’d skirted the labyrinth of streets on the way out of town, he’d smelled food cooking, heard laughter and song, saw smoke rising from chimneys – and a terrible feeling of envy had engulfed him.
Walking across the plain against a strong wind had slowed him down, but thankfu
lly the girl had slept on, apart from a few minutes in an area where he’d stumbled over rocks and she’d almost fallen from his arms. His arms and back were aching. At first her weight had been as light as a feather, but now she felt as heavy as a sack of potatoes. He hadn’t slept in almost two days, he realised, and the climb up to the north-east gate was tiring, at the best of times.
David had asked Garcia to honour the two days’ leave, previously promised to him, but he’d received a resounding no. “You serve at the duke’s pleasure. Your life is his, and leave from the castle is a gift, not a right.” Garcia was a whoreson, David thought for the umpteenth time. He was probably incapable of feeling a sliver of remorse for his part in tonight’s murders. “Keep your mouth shut and forget everything that has happened this night,” Garcia had also said. Forget? David thought. Only a wild animal would forget what it had slaughtered.
He kicked a stone and then stumbled with a misstep. As much as he despised the duke and Garcia, even more, he loathed all that he, David Sanz, had become. Had he always been wicked deep down? he wondered. Or had he simply shed some pesky skin tonight to reveal his true character? The duke would ask more of him. It was inevitable, for in Luis Peráto’s mind, David Sanz had become an immoral criminal, willing to kill on his duke’s whims. He’d sold his soul to the man. Maybe he should have taken the money and been done with it.
David shook his head irately. He was not a henchman, an executioner, or a wicked man. No, he wasn’t. He’d spend the rest of his life asking for redemption and proving to God and his family that he was a good man. He’d rather be hanged as a traitor than take another innocent life to satisfy the duke’s whims. And then he wondered whether he would live to see the New Year. Or would Garcia have him killed against the duke’s orders?
The house and small plot of land coming into view in the distance looked like every other smallholding from Sagrat to the sea, but to David’s father, it was a palace. Situated approximately midway between the town and the Mediterranean coast, it was a decent walk to get anywhere, but its location was perfect, for it was one of the only plots to have a direct supply of fresh water from a nearby river.
Luckily, this plain had a predominately straight road running through it all the way to the sea. He could find his way home blindfolded, for there was not a crack in the road, a plant, or a bush that he didn’t recognise en route. He’d walked this road a thousand times. His skin had cracked in the baking sun and had been drenched and battered in winter storms. The journey this night, however, had by far been the most difficult and miserable he’d ever taken.
He couldn’t help but think again about the money. Deciding not to take it had been an impulsive decision. Had he been too hasty? He was aware of his father’s debts. He owed rent and taxes, unpaid these past two months, and he was under threat of eviction. The present drought had transformed the fertile land into dusty plains. The riverbed had crusted over, and it was so dry that weeds and plants were growing through the ground where water should be flowing. Even the hardiest of crops had failed in the dry spell that had lasted for months.
The house was in disrepair. His mother, father, and two younger brothers lived together in two rooms under a wooden and straw roof. The plot had olive trees and a vineyard, which had failed to produce more than a few grapes this year. In the past, David’s father had been successful, growing onions, spinach, and asparagus. Striving to survive the drought was an uphill struggle, and each day it became more and more difficult to sustain the family’s meagre needs.
David missed his brothers, Diego and Juanjo. They were fine boys, growing into strong men with ambitions. Diego had just turned seventeen, and he was determined to leave the land behind for a life at sea. On David’s last visit home, Diego had spoken about a navy with ships that travelled to North Africa and Portugal. There were rumours about vessels being built, sturdy enough to sail far to the East, where new lands were being discovered and fortunes were being made. Diego walked to the sea every chance he got. When he came home, he was melancholic and even more desperate to leave home. He might have asked permission to leave, David suspected, had it not been for the drought, forcing the family to look for other sources of income. He was a loyal lad.
Diego and Juanjo wanted more than a squalid life in feudal Spain, where religion dictated what you were and what you could become. All the two boys had to look forward to each day was the long trek to the pine forests, blistered feet, and aching backs. It was illegal to cut down the pine trees in the upper slopes, which lay half a league behind the town, but the lads took only what they found lying on the ground. At this time of the year, there was a healthy scattering of pinecones. If they were lucky, thick branches felled by wind still held twigs. And pine needles carpeted the rocks and soil beneath the trees. These were gathered and put into sacks, later to be used as mulch in vegetable plots or tied into wands for kindling. They never went home until they had sold every piece of firewood collected. And with their profits, they managed to buy eggs, a small joint of meat (on good days), and wheat and grains to make bread.
David didn’t want that life for Diego and Juanjo. He’d not settled for drudgery, so why should they?
He stopped. Next door to the main building was a hut full of straw and farming tools. He looked under his cloak. The girl’s eyes were wide open, yet she didn’t utter a sound. Was she sick? “I’m sorry. It will soon be over,” he told her. “You’ll have some warm milk and a nice soft bed, just as I promised.”
She stared up at him, and her lips trembled at the sound of his voice. “Mama,” she finally whimpered.
He opened the hut’s door, set the child on the floor, and then left immediately. Thank God. She wouldn’t remember this night, he thought, walking towards the house. He wondered which was the lesser of two evils. Was it keeping his family in ignorance about the murders and the girl or telling them everything? The decision he’d taken was not about evil, he then thought. It was about doing the right thing.
His part in this heinous crime would disgust them – and telling them about it might put their lives in danger. But Garcia’s veiled innuendos were more than just threats used to scare him. He was convinced that the treasurer had some sinister game in mind.
He had a duty to warn his family about what might lie ahead. He was already damned, his soul blackened with mortal sin. But had he left the child in the Jewry, the Jews would have been blamed for her parents’ death and the disappearance of her infant brother. Had he taken her to the steps of the church, every citizen in Sagrat would have been implicated … No, he thought with his hand on the house’s front door, bringing her here and telling his family about her was the only decent thing he would do this night.
He stepped softly into the house. The fire in the hearth still burned with deep red embers in their dying moments, managing to cast warmth and a soft orange glow in the darkened room. He gazed lovingly at Diego and Juanjo sleeping soundly on straw pallets in a corner behind the table. After looking about him, he frowned with confusion, which then turned to anger. The air was thick with the smell of boiled vegetables and herbs. The cooking pans were clean. No remnants of wild boar, cooked meat, or bones of any kind were or probably had been in the house. All that lay on the table were two wrinkled potatoes, a lump of bread, and a piece of crumbling hard cheese, leftovers from the family’s meal.
The man with the cart, who had gratefully accepted a coin and the promise of meat, had stolen the boar. He and his family had probably filled their bellies with it and had washed it down with wine. David covered his face with his hands and cursed the man to hell. He’d gut the bastard! He’d rip his heart out and shove it inside his lying mouth …
He turned at the sound of the door’s creaking timbers. His father, Juan, stood before him, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Without a word, David grabbed him by the shoulders and hugged him tenderly. “Papa,” he whispered. “I’ve come home.”
Juan Sanz, his face leathered with years in the sun, was as tall and as b
road as David was. He too was a handsome man, with black deep-set eyes and a mop of bluish-black hair curling at the nape of his neck. But unlike David, he sported an unruly beard, which covered the bottom half of his face.
Grinning now with pleasure, Juan slapped David on the back. “Son, we didn’t expect to see you this week. What are you doing here?” he whispered.
David forced a smile, but averted his eyes. “I wanted to see my family, Papa, and I don’t have much time … We need to talk.”
Juan’s smile froze. “Hmm, that sounds ominous. Why so serious, lad? You must be freezing. Have some supper and a drop of wine. I got it for our feast, such as it was.”
“I don’t have time to eat, Papa. Will you come with me to the hut? There’s something I have to show you.”
David’s brothers, also awake now, stared groggily at their brother. One by one, they rose from their pallets and, still half asleep, stumbled towards David.
“Welcome home,” Diego said, putting his arms around David.
“Did you bring your new sword?” Juanjo, standing behind Diego, asked.
“I did, but you mustn’t touch it,” David said, more harshly than intended. His eyes welled up with love. Crushing his family to him, knowing that they might send him away for what he’d done, was terrifying. His heart thumped like a drum in his chest. He flicked his eyes from his father to his brothers, and then straightened his shoulders. He was running out of time. The little girl was probably freezing and starving by now.
“So tell us, what’s so important that you won’t warm your bones and feed your belly? And what’s this about the hut?” asked Juan.
“Papa, I’ll tell you everything when we get outside. Please come with me now.”
