The Errant Flock

by Jana Petken

  Luis altered the position of his upturned peaked hat and the feathers stuck on top of it. He looked noble, and he would be a regal host. Now his only task was to please Gaspar de Amo. Pleasing him and getting money from him was all that mattered. He stopped in his tracks. What would please his father-by-law more than a public execution?

  “Garcia, contact the mercenaries. Ride with them and find men to burn for the murders. I’ve come to a decision. I will not let the council or the townspeople spoil my son’s baptism or the inquisitor’s visit. Don’t come back to Sagrat until you have suspects in custody.”

  “I think you’re making a big mistake,” Garcia said.

  “And I think you are overstepping your position. Don’t question my decisions. This is what I want; and by God, this is what I’ll have! Leave me. You shall fix this outstanding inconvenience, my lord treasurer, or you’ll be finished in this town.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  David gazed at the young woman through the cell’s bars. She was a rare sight in this place. She was not the only woman presently incarcerated, but she was probably the most innocent, the others having been locked up for crimes of debauchery, theft, and adultery.

  Sinfa, lying on the dirt floor in a corner, had her face turned towards the wall and her body curled, with knees at her chest. She would not be allowed to see anyone, David thought, continuing to watch her. Prisons were secretive places, barred to anyone but guards, attendants, and authorities. Conversing with prisoners was frowned upon. Visitors were not allowed, and unless food and water were being delivered, the incarcerated remained in permanent isolation. David had no valid reason to go inside the cell to speak to the Jewish girl, for the civilian men, paid by the magistrate’s office, attended to the prisoners. But he felt it his duty to protect her and to tell her that she had not been forgotten, at least not by him.

  Looking along the passageway, he saw Paco. He sat with his legs up on a tabletop with his arms crossed over his chest, and he was fast asleep, judging by the sound of his snoring and lightly bobbing head. David smiled. Paco wouldn’t stir unless a rock fell on top of him. Turning the iron key, David pushed the creaky cell door open, entered, and then closed the door behind him.

  Sinfa turned around to face the door. After sitting up, she put her back to the wall, pushed her hair from her face, and squinted in the flaming torchlight. “You were the one who brought me here,” she said pitifully to David.

  David stood perfectly still and then slowly removed his helmet. “Yes, I did. I’m not going to hurt you. I’ve brought bread.” Watching her stare at the bread with greedy eyes, still flashing with the anger he’d seen when she’d been arrested, he got the impression that she was trying to decide whether she wanted to accept his gift or not. “Pride is a lost cause. You have to eat if you want to survive in here,” he said forcibly.

  “I would rather have my freedom,” Sinfa said, still eying the bread, “but I’ll take it and thank you all the same.”

  “Here, take my cloak too. It’s freezing in here.”

  Scowling now, she said, “You threw me in this cell. What do you care if I’m cold? No, I don’t want it … I would rather freeze to death.”

  “And I would rather you lived.” Without waiting for permission, David put the cloak around her shoulders and reminded her, “I’m a soldier, and that means I have to follow orders, even the ones I don’t like. I can’t give you back your freedom, Sinfa, but I can make sure you get enough to eat and drink. I’ll do what I can to help you. I give you my word.”

  “Why are you being so kind to me?” she asked suspiciously.

  Because I know that your grandfather was murdered by the same man who wants you to rot in here, he wanted to say. Instead, he told her, “You shouldn’t be here. This is an injustice.”

  Between tears, Sinfa agreed. “I don’t know what I did wrong … There have been no charges laid against me. I’m innocent. That man should be in prison for hitting me.”

  “I know that.”

  “You do?”

  She stood up and took a few hesitant steps towards him. “Would you deliver a message to Rabbi Rabinivitch? Everyone in the Jewry knows who he is,” she said. “Ask him to plead with the duke for my release. The duke will listen to him. I know he will. Would you do that for me?”

  The duke was a whoreson, and he wouldn’t order her release, David thought. And Garcia would do everything in his power to keep her locked up, without allowing her the right to a defence lawyer. “I’ll see to it,” he said.

  Watching her standing there sobbing and chewing at the same time, he wondered what else he could do for her. She was headstrong, and haughty for one so young, yet she looked like a frightened child who needed her mother’s arms around her. “I’ll come back with more food, and I’ll bring you a blanket,” he said awkwardly. “Keep the cloak around you. No one needs to know who gave it to you. It’s going to rain today, and the temperature in here will drop further. Eat the bread I brought you, and don’t refuse anything that’s given to you, not even pig’s meat. No one will be cruel towards you as long as you don’t insult the attendants. Keep that in mind.” With that said, he left with the sound of her weeping ringing in his ears.

  Boots thumping, men’s voices, and the sound of iron grating as it was dragged along the passageway floor startled Paco and David, who were ladling thin gruel into their bowls. They stood, and looking in the direction of the noise, they saw the first of the Inquisition’s men-at-arms in the dim light. Wearing chain mail vests, white tunics with a single cross painted on them, red cloaks with the Inquisition’s emblem sewed onto the left hand, and shining helmets, they looked like foreign soldiers. Drawing their swords, David and Paco placed their feet in an offensive stance, and eyed the strangers.

  “Identify yourselves!” Paco shouted in an unnecessarily loud voice.

  “Lower your swords!” one of the men-at-arms shouted back, even though he had come within arm’s length of Paco and David.

  David studied the man, trying to ascertain if he was comrade or adversary, friendly or aggressive. Looking past him, he saw five or six other men crowding the narrow passageway. “Well, who are you?” Paco asked again.

  Puffing up his chest and looking offended at not being recognised, the man standing slightly in front of the others retorted, “You should know who we are. We’re the inquisitor’s familiars. My name is Raul Dávila. Who’s in charge here?”

  “I am,” Paco answered gruffly. “This is the duke of Sagrat’s prison. By whose authority do you come prancing in here unannounced?”

  “The Holy Office of Rome and the Inquisition,” Dávila said with great pomp. “The inquisitor, Gaspar de Amo, has already presented his credentials to your church and secular authorities.”

  Paco glanced at David and then stared again at the man. “Familiars? Why do they call you that?”

  “Our job is to know everybody’s business, including yours.”

  Paco coughed uncomfortably. “So what can we do for you?” he asked with a bit more respect.

  “You can do my bidding. We’re here to inspect your prison. For a start, I need a list of your provisions and prisoner names.”

  Dávila’s words were interrupted by the sound of men groaning and heavy objects rattling and banging loudly against the walls.

  “Make a path for them,” Dávila said to the men directly behind him.

  David and Paco exchanged another glance. David suspected that Paco was thinking exactly the same thing that he was. It was blatantly apparent that they had just lost control of the duke’s prison.

  Devices and furniture filled the guard post area. Tables, chairs, ropes, chains, and empty buckets were set down first. Two torture contraptions being carried by six men followed, but they were left farther down the passageway.

  David opened his mouth and shuddered with repulsion at the sight of a long wooden framed device with chains and handles at each end. “What is that?” he asked Dávila.

  “We
call it the rack.”

  Paco, looking just as curious as David, asked, “What does it do?”

  “The heretic lies on the top of the wooden framed mattress. The prisoner has his hands and feet tied or chained to these rollers here, at one or both ends. Then our torturer turns the rollers with a handle, which pulls the chains or ropes a bit at a time and stretches the heretic’s joints. Sometimes they’re pulled out of place. I once saw a torturer continue to turn the rollers until the accused man’s arm was completely torn off.”

  David felt sick. Paco’s face was drained of colour, and Dávila looked as though he had enjoyed shocking them.

  “Your inquisitor hasn’t wasted any time in bringing his playthings, eh?” Paco said, clearly trying to inject a bit of humour into the man-at-arms’ tale of torture.

  “He’s not my inquisitor. He’s Aragon’s inquisitor.”

  “My apologies,” Paco muttered.

  Accepting them, Davila continued. “You’ll give me and my men a tour of the prison, and when we’ve finished, we’ll need access to your keys. Show my man here a list of your prisoners’ names and tell him what crimes they’ve committed. You two can stay at your posts until the Inquisition formally takes over … Who are these people?” he asked, pointing to three prison attendants cowering in a corner.

  “They attend to the prisoners’ needs. Our prisoners are mostly petty criminals. Only a few stay here long term,” Paco said. “I doubt the Inquisition will be interested in them.”

  “These attendants can go home. They won’t be needed here anymore. As for the prisoners, the inquisitor is interested in every crime committed, whether they are sins against neighbours or God. All criminals have affronted our Lord and his church in some way or another. The inquisitor will decide whether the convicts are innocent or guilty.”

  David was beginning to feel uncomfortable in the presence of men who had not once parted their lips in a smile. Thinking about Sinfa, he said, “We have a Jewish girl incarcerated. What will happen to her?”

  “Our inquisitor has no interest in Jews. They have never been baptised; therefore, they cannot be called heretics,” Dávila said. “He cares only for his Christian flock. Your magistrate can deal with her as he sees fit.”

  David decided not to press the matter further. Taking a step back, he leaned against the wall with a passive expression. Listening to Paco and Dávila discussing what should be done first, he wondered what would happen to Sinfa. And what was going to happen to Sagrat and its people?

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Garcia stood with hands on hips and glared at Tur in a challenge of wills. Tur threw Garcia a thunderous look and then raised his harsh-toned voice. “What you are asking is out of the question,” he said.

  Garcia was livid. He would have liked to strike the bastard and wipe the insolence off his mouth. But Tur was a consummate swordsman, a hard man who did not take kindly to having fun poked at him or orders thrown at him by anyone but the duke. A corpulent man, his head seemed far too big for his body, and his ruddy face and coarse brown hair that fell about his ears made him look like a rough mountain goat herder. He was probably the only man in this town that Peráto would call indispensable. He would have to be handled very carefully.

  “I don’t have time to stand here debating with you, Captain,” Garcia said. “Give me the horse and prison cart or I’ll report you to the duke for your impertinence.”

  “You say the duke knows about this?”

  “Of course he does. Why else would I be here?”

  Still looking unhappy, Tur expelled a heavy sigh. “Then I should send my men with you. Surely you’re not thinking of detaining the suspects on your own? You need the cavalry. This is what they’ve been trained for.”

  The last thing I need is the militia by my side, Garcia thought. He could just picture the scene and what he would say to the soldiers when he found random victims foolish enough to be wandering about in the dark: “Arrest these men … They are completely innocent, but they look as though they will confess to murders, abduction, and mayhem at the drop of a hat.”

  “If I had any need of your men, I would have asked for them,” he told Tur with a slightly calmer voice. “The suspects are being held at the port by people the duke trusts. He wants this handled quietly. The inquisitor has just arrived, and the duke doesn’t think it fitting to interrupt his papal mission with the thunder of hooves galloping down the hill after murderers. The scum will not be dragged into town in chains, escorted by your cavalry and knights … and you will speak to no one about this until I return. Do you understand me, Captain?”

  “Yes, I understand, Your Honour.”

  Garcia climbed onto the prison cart, much like any other cart that trundled through the streets but with a wooden roof and bars on each side and back. Glaring once more at Tur, he said, “Just make sure you’re here when I return with the suspects. You can have your moment of glory then. I’ll hand them over to you. You can escort them to the prison, and afterwards you will tell your men to spread the word to every house and hovel in this town. Don’t disappoint me, Captain.” He slapped the reins and drove off.

  Still muttering angrily under his breath, Garcia cleared the last of the streets and headed onto the open plain in a northward direction. He was furious. The duke’s foolish and inconvenient plan to hold a public execution to appease the townspeople was the whim of an overindulged and naive nobleman who was too stupid to realise that he was putting his own aristocratic arse in danger by pursuing this matter.

  Garcia had asked Peráto one simple question before he’d left: “How will I convince the militia and the town council that I was able to find, overpower, and incarcerate murderers on my own?” The bastard had answered, “This isn’t my problem. It’s your problem.”

  Garcia looked skyward. Fast-moving black clouds filled the heavens, whipping up a strong wind which caused the rain to fall in horizontal sheets. He bowed his head against the cold torrent of water and pulled the top of his hood down onto his chin. “May God damn you to hell, Peráto. Looking for men to burn in your town square is a waste of my valuable time,” he mumbled under his breath.

  After travelling half a league to the north of Sagrat, Garcia jumped down and led the mule and cart up an incline. When he got to the top, he once again took the reins and drove the cart as fast as he could, finally reaching a rocky plain heading inland towards the mountains.

  Halting, he tied the horse’s reins to the wooden shaft at the side of the cart and walked towards a crevice. Stopping just before he reached it, he cast his eyes over the area. He lifted his arm and waved it in the air. Men were watching him. They were probably hiding behind rocks on the higher ground in front of him and inside one of the many deep cracks in the ground, running like veins.

  The mercenaries’ leader, Alejandro, had chosen a good hideout, he thought. The terrain was wild and virginal, as though man had never claimed it or tamed it. The rocky valley leading to the base of the mountains inland was overgrown with prickly cacti, tall grass hiding deep potholes that could swallow a horse and rider, and shallow hills that were like gentle waves, obscuring the inland pathway he had just taken.

  Cautiously walking through waist-high weeds and taking care not to kick or trip over hidden rocks on the ground, he eventually reached the crevice he was looking for. He raised his hands in the air again for good measure and called out his name. “Sergio Garcia. I’m here to see Alejandro!” This was the third time he’d come here, and he hated this part the most. Some of the mercenaries knew him, but there was always the chance that one of them could get trigger-happy and fire a longbow dart without asking questions first.

  A man’s face appeared at the crevice’s lip. He held a crossbow pointed at Garcia’s head.

  Looking at the arrow’s tip, Garcia forgot his fear and said impatiently, “It’s me, you fools. Didn’t you hear me shout?”

  The crevice was shoulder deep and about three feet wide. Holding on to the banks, Garcia ju
mped into the centre of the crack, and sidled awkwardly to an opening farther along. He looked down at a hole, which was just wide enough to allow an average man’s body to slip through it, and sighed with relief when he saw a rope ladder attached to a large rock. Good, he thought, at least there was a proper ladder in place. The last time he’d been here, all he had to grab on to was a rope.

  Garcia was not afraid of Alejandro, but he was mindful of the marauder’s hardened criminal mind and penchant towards violence. Alejandro could never be fully trusted, Garcia had remarked to Peráto when the duke asked him what he thought of the thief. But he did seem to be a strong leader, and he had a reputation amongst his men for being fair when sharing bounties.

  A man stood at the bottom of the ladder. He nodded in recognition but said nothing to Garcia. Both men walked a few paces until they reached a low-hanging rock. Garcia got onto his knees, grunted with disgust, and then followed the mercenary. The narrow low narrow ceiling cavern was the most awkward part of the caves to manoeuvre. The iron cold rocky ground underneath Garcia dug into his thin hose, ripping them at the knees and cutting his skin. He could feel every stone, hard and unyielding, bruising his legs and palms. His grunt of displeasure was audible. How anyone could live like this, he’d never know. These men earned a decent living stealing from others, yet they chose to live like animals underneath the ground. What was the point of having coin if not to use it whoring, drinking, and living comfortably in a fine home? Garcia had always wondered.

  The man finally spoke. “Alejandro is up ahead. He wasn’t expecting you.”

  So what? Garcia thought. He had money for Alejandro. He didn’t need an invitation. “Just hurry up. I’ve got an urgent job for him,” he told the man.

  At the end of the tunnel, a large opening appeared. The moment he entered the high-ceilinged cave, Garcia heard the sound of running water coursing down the rocks. It had been a while since rain had soaked these walls, he thought. Only once before had he seen the reservoir fill with such a tide of water. No one knew how deep the underground lake was, for no man had ever touched the bottom of it with his feet. It was ironic, he thought. All this fresh water lay under the ground, yet Sagrat had suffered a drought. Shame the people didn’t know of its existence.