The Errant Flock

by Jana Petken

  “Hypocrites, Guillermo. We are surrounded by back-stabbing, lying cowards,” he said, voicing his thoughts. “I recall a time when these streets were not separated from each other by walls and when your grandfather and his father lent money to Christians from here to the sea.

  “I will never forgive that young upstart in the castle for taking away your chance to be Sagrat’s treasurer. Luis Peráto is not half the man his father was. Now, he was a duke. The last time I spoke to Cabrera, he told me that the duke was struggling to find enough coin to send to the king in Granada.”

  “No doubt blame for the duke’s financial troubles will be placed at the Jewry’s gates,” Guillermo said.

  Rabinovitch nodded. “I agree, son. Cabrera’s death will spell trouble for all of us. I swear he was the only reason we still have roofs over our heads and money in our purses. We must prepare for the worst.”

  “Do you think he killed himself?”

  “No, I don’t think he did. I can’t imagine any earthly reason why he’d throw himself off that wall. But if for some reason he did end his own life, it was because he’d lost his wits.” Rabinovitch hid his grief. Saul Cabrera had been his closest friend since boyhood. He needed to cry just as much as Sinfa did, but he didn’t have that comfort.

  “There are some important matters that you need to attend to, my lad,” he said, putting his sadness to the side. “I want you to make sure that Sinfa Cabrera agrees to marriage before the end of the day. She won’t refuse you. Not after this.”

  “Father, don’t you think she should have time to mourn before I ask her again? She has refused me twice now. How do you suggest I persuade her when she’s made it quite clear she’s not interested?”

  “Do you love her?”

  “I’m fond of her. I’ve known her all my life. I used to wipe her runny nose and chase her down the street to pull her hair.”

  “Well, that’s good enough. Love is sometimes an impediment anyway,” Rabinovitch said, discarding Guillermo’s statement. “You and she are firm friends. Friendship is better than passion, which burns out and leaves resentment in its wake. Don’t ever wish for the love of a woman. Ask for her respect. That’s all that matters.

  “Sinfa is far too haughty for her own good. She’s thinks she’s independent, but that’s easy to say when food and clothing are being provided. Her days of looking down her nose at you are over. She’s alone now and must turn to someone for protection. That somebody should be you...Did you know the Cabreras never paid any taxes or rent?” Rabinovitch asked.

  Guillermo nodded. “I did know this. You’ve told me many times about how lucky the Cabreras are.”

  “The man was hording money in his house for years.”

  “Well, it won’t do him any good now, will it?”

  “No, no, it won’t.” Rabinovitch watched the small gathering waiting patiently for him to join them. They would want to hear that everything would be all right and that nothing would change. But life would not be the same, for with Saul gone, the duke would no longer have to honour his promises to his late father.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sinfa Cabrera was inconsolable. Her neighbours in the Jewry did everything they could to comfort her, but they asked each other what they could do to ease her pain. Saul Cabrera, her grandfather, had been the duke’s physician, and he’d just thrown himself off the highest part of the castle wall. She would never recover.

  She mourned as she sat by her grandfather’s body, which lay on the floor. She was accompanied by the shomerim; watchmen selected to accompany the remains until burial. Volunteers from the chevra kadisha, the holy society, were charged with caring for the physician’s dead body. It had been cleansed, bathed, and had received the tahorah ritual, or the pouring of water, as it was commonly known.

  The body was completely covered in white linen shrouds, and bandages hid his badly damaged skull and face, leaving only one eye and part of a cheek visible. His injuries were horrific, and although Sinfa was sickened at the sight of him, she insisted on being present for every ritual.

  At seventeen years old, Sinfa was headstrong, and she’d refused to accept the soldiers’ explanation regarding her grandfather’s death. He’d gone for a walk and must have decided to visit the watchtower, they had told her. Perhaps her grandfather was sad? He took his life in a moment of madness, one soldier offered.

  “Perhaps he was sad? He took his own life in a moment of madness?” she now said, angrily repeating the soldiers’ words to Rabinovitch. “I will never believe that. It’s not true! Yayo suffered his fair share of sorrow, but he was not an unhappy man, nor was he a sinner. The duchess is due to give birth. He told me only yesterday morning that he was thrilled at the prospect. He would never deny God’s goodness in this life … How am I to bear this?”

  Rabinovitch stroked his white beard, shook his head, and then spread his arms wide. “I don’t believe your dear yayo threw himself onto the rocks either. Anyone who ever knew him well would say the same. He practiced medicine to save lives. He was proud of you and looked forward to seeing you settled with my Guillermo. He would never take his own life, under any circumstances. But this is how it appears, and we must believe what we’re told.”

  “No, I won’t, and you shouldn’t either!” Sinfa was horrified.

  “We must.”

  “What do you think happened to him?” she asked him, wiping tears from her cheeks.

  “I have no idea, child. We may never learn the truth. God only knows what dark forces are at work in this town. We are in dire need of his guidance and protection. Our troubles are grave, herded into this walled corral like goats and treated like the dirt Christians tread upon. Life has turned sour for us, Sinfa. It will be best for everyone if you don’t upset anyone up at the castle with your questions.”

  Sinfa shook her head. She had so many questions, and she would ask them. “I must seek an audience with the duke. Surely he will afford me that favour? Yayo was with the duke and duchess all day yesterday. Maybe someone saw what happened to him before he fell. Perhaps there’s a witness that has not yet come forward. I have to know.”

  Rabinovitch again spread his arms in a gesture of helplessness. “Sinfa, as always, you are stubborn and determined to get your own way. But listen to me child, I’ve spoken to the council. We think it best if we bury your yayo quietly and without any fuss – and let that be the end of the matter. He goes to the grave a sinner against God. Many are angry with him, and some refuse to see him go to his rest because of what he did.”

  “But it’s not true! How can they think that?” Sinfa insisted. “Will he be afforded a eulogy?”

  “No, I’m sorry. I can’t give him that. He murdered himself, and all his good deeds in this life have been wiped out. We should leave now for the cemetery. It’s time for you to say goodbye to him.”

  “He didn’t sin. He didn’t,” Sinfa mumbled under her breath. From where she sat, she could see the crowd of mourners in the hallway. They were whispering. They probably wanted to put her yayo in the ground as quickly as possible to hide his black stain. Their lives were dark and dreary, but without her yayo’s devotion to them, their world would have ended long ago.

  She was furious. Already these people seemed to have forgotten how much Saul Cabrera had done for them. He was the only one who had managed to persuade the duke not to demolish the synagogue. Yayo’s voice was what stopped the Christians from taking an entire street of Jewish houses for themselves before the wall went up. He had even given coin and alms to some Jews who had lost their businesses.

  “Look at them out there. They look as though they’re ashamed to show their faces here, instead of being honoured to be in my yayo’s house,” she said, motioning towards the hallway. “They have more to worry about than his offence against God. Who will look after them now? You?”

  “Be quiet!” Rabinovitch said scathingly. “You must behave with dignity. Don’t meddle in problems that don’t concern you. It’s time to get
off your high horse and realise that without my family, you will have no decent life here.

  “It’s been decided. Guillermo and I will move into this house with you. You and he will be married immediately, and you’ll have his protection. No one else will marry you … Now, cover your head properly. It’s time to go. Cry your tears and mourn your yayo, like a good granddaughter.”

  Sinfa released a throaty sob. Her large green eyes flashed with defiance, but she wouldn’t say another word, lest she anger the rabbi further. She flicked errant tendrils of her long black hair behind her ears and tightened the shawl about her head. For now, she would have to listen to the old man and keep her thoughts to herself. But when her grandfather’s burial ritual was completed, she would tell Calvo Rabinovitch a few truths.

  Walking to the cemetery, she told herself that she would survive this tragedy. She didn’t need a husband; she needed her grandfather. She wouldn’t want for money either. Her grandfather had a hidden treasure. Over the years, she had watched the pile of coins grow until it could no longer fit under the wooden slatted floorboard in her sleeping room. It had to be moved to a bigger hole underneath the hallway floor, covered by a carpet. “This is for the storm that’s coming,” her yayo had told her every time he added coin to the pile. And he’d always insisted, “If we are forced to leave, we will not go hungry, nor will we have to beg like dogs from Christians.” She’d always thought it strange when he talked about a Jewish expulsion when it was obvious to everyone that the duke relied on his medical skills and his wise council.

  She didn’t need Guillermo’s or the rabbi’s protection. Contrary to what they thought, she was quite capable of getting by on her own, with all the coin she needed to weather any storm. She was going to the castle. She’d demand an audience with the duke and a proper explanation of what happened to her grandfather, and that was that!

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was still dark, and the church bells had just chimed six times. The forty militiamen stood in line in the barrack’s courtyard, which was situated near the gatehouse on the castle’s north-east corner. Their swords were sheaved in thick leather belts. Each man had a dagger tucked into his waistband and ten of them also held longbows, which rested upright on the ground, casually held in their hands.

  David looked at the men’s faces, turning bright red with cold, and wished he could feel the same way he had yesterday morning, when he had not a care in the world and was looking forward to a grand feast of wild boar with his family.

  Although his expression was passive, it hid the tumultuous thoughts and feelings that were overwhelming him. News about the previous night’s attacks on farms, his brother’s death, the young murdered couple, and missing children would come soon. The men were going to be shocked and enraged, and he would have to appear as though he were learning the details for the first time. Displaying grief for his brother, Juanjo, wouldn’t be difficult, he thought, for he was in terrible pain and needed to weep.

  During the night, guards had spotted one fire burning on the plain; that much he had heard. It had probably been the plot nearest to the castle, which lay in its line of sight. His father’s farm and the other casualty of the attack would not have been so easily seen, as both of these plots sat farther to the east, on the other side of a thick wooded area. No one had been dispatched to investigate, however, and as far as he was aware, none of the soldiers with him had been informed about the reason the farmhouse had gone up in flames.

  His chalk-white exhausted face fought to hide the anguish he felt. On his return to the barracks, he’d had just enough time to wash the smoky grime off his skin before the other men awoke. Luckily, apart from the two night guardsmen, no one had seen him come in. The guards had not asked him any questions, nor would they say a word to anyone about seeing him. Soldiers often slipped out to see their wives during the night or to poke a lover or an easy wench. This was forbidden, but there was a close companionship within the ranks, and their allegiance to each other was at times stronger than their loyalty to the duke.

  Orders were about to be issued for the day. David’s eyes followed the militia’s captain, Vicént Tur, nervously pacing in front of a castle door. What news would he give the men first? David wondered. Tur’s face looked tense. He was not known for good humour or an easy smile. His conversations were usually conducted in monosyllables, with yes and no answers, and he rarely used full sentences. But this morning, he looked as though he would strike a man for so much as farting in the line.

  Paco Morales, standing next to David, nudged him, and as though reading David’s thoughts, said, “Tur looks as though he’s just drunk piss for water.”

  David had a fondness for Paco, who had guided him through his first weeks in the militia. Some considered his lively character annoying. David thought him amusing, yet at times he was overly curious about everyone else’s business … He certainly wasn’t boring.

  “Maybe he should drink a bucket of wine and make love to his wife,” David said, shrugging.

  “He should be so lucky on both counts,” Paco chuckled. “I don’t think he’s seen underneath his wife’s dress for years, and he doesn’t drink wine, not since he got rowdily drunk last year and spent three weeks in prison strapped inside an empty barrel with his head sticking out of the top like a chicken. That had a terrible effect on him... He’s turned to God –goes to Mass every morning and confession every couple of days. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that he’s leaving the militia and entering a monastery. ”

  David studied Tur with fresh eyes. “Is that why he always looks so sullen – because he’s turned to religion?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe God doesn’t pay Tur any more attention to him than his wife does. All I know is that he was much happier when he was falling down drunk in front of the church instead of kneeling down in prayer inside it,” Paco offered with a grin. “This is an important day, my lad. That’s all I know. The duke finally has an heir, and apparently there are going to be big celebrations. Good days are coming to Sagrat. I can smell them.”

  How wrong Paco was, David thought, shifting his feet from one to the other to stop them from becoming numb. He continued to watch Tur whispering to one of the men some distance away and shuddered, feeling that someone had just stepped on his grave. Dear God, what he wouldn’t do for some hot broth and the heat of a blazing fire to thaw his bones. Tiredness was making him shiver. He’d freeze his arse off before the inspection happened.

  David turned his thoughts again to the previous night. After Diego had left the farm with the little girl, David had persuaded his mother and father to come back to Sagrat with him. Their languid steps had eventually reached the San Agustin church in the town square, after it had been decided that they should throw themselves at Father Bernardo’s feet and beg for help.

  David had left Juan and Isa on the church’s steps, afraid of being seen and later questioned about why he’d been at the farm. He wondered if the priest gave his parents shelter and alms. Of course he did. It was his job to care for his flock.

  The sight of Diego, head hanging and walking across the plain with the child in his arms, had broken David’s heart. He would probably never see his brother again. His lasting memory of him would be that of his half-naked body and bare feet stumbling in the darkness, his torn nightshirt billowing in the wind.

  He would never stop worrying about him. Where was he now? What did the future hold for him? A ship’s captain might not employ a man that looked like a beggar without means to clothe himself? But Diego was a clever boy, David reminded himself. He was astute, and underneath the grime covering his body was a handsome man with a beguiling smile which could charm the most reluctant birds off a tree. He was going to survive and flourish. He, David, had to believe that.

  At least there was comfort, knowing that the little girl was alive. He prayed for her survival and for her future, but part of him wished he had not saved her. He hated himself for even thinking that, but he also knew that sh
e was the reason he’d been compelled to tell his family about the murders. His father’s words would be like pig’s dung on his boots, going with him wherever he went. “After we reach the church, I don’t want to see your face again. You have shamed me. I have lost three sons tonight because of you. Damn your soul to hell.” Not many words, David thought, but they had been powerful and painful to hear.

  Chapter Sixteen

  David was jolted from his thoughts by Tur’s shrill orders to come to attention. Looking up, he saw Garcia appear. Steeling himself to stand with a blank expression, David steadied his pounding heart and tried to cull his hatred. He should have known this was going to happen. Before any questions could be asked, Garcia was here to lie through his teeth about the previous night.

  He studied Garcia from out of the corner of his eye and inwardly cursed him. The treasurer seemed to wear a constant sneer on his mouth, as though measuring another man’s worth and finding it lacking. He was a festering boil, born of a whore who had probably never known the name of her baby’s father. He was a sinister force, more powerful in nature than the duke was, and he was certainly capable of sending men to the farms to destroy and kill.

  After talking to Tur, Garcia came to stand centre front of the line. Cocking his head to one side, he listened to something Tur was whispering in his ear, and then he looked at the soldiers standing in the front row.

  “David Sanz, step forward!” Captain Tur shouted.

  “What have you done, lad?” Paco whispered hurriedly.

  “Nothing,” David mumbled as he left the line.

  Standing before Garcia, he felt compelled to give him a courtesy bow of his head. But David’s only thought was that his fellow militiamen would now share his grief, and he was glad.

  “I must have words with you, Sanz,” Garcia said in a flat, unemotional voice. “Follow me.”