by Jana Petken
Turning around, he stumbled through the clustered group of men.
“Who was he?” the man with the log asked him.
“A thief probably. I’ve never seen him before,” David lied. “I thank you for saving my life. I’m indebted to you.”
The men went back to their houses, but the man with the log remained.
“Lie to me if you will but have a care, lad. The man you were fighting was no thief. He was a skilled swordsman, and he wanted to kill you.”
David nodded. “Yes, I know, and I wanted to kill him.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
David sat bare-chested in the only chair in the room and grimaced with pain at the first touch of the damp rag on his wound. The muscles in his cheeks were taut. His skin was the colour of cold white ash. Droplets of sweat had settled on his forehead, and his eyes were still full of rage.
His mother wept and his father cursed the duke and Garcia to hell, but all David could think about as his mother bathed his injury was how lucky he was to be alive and not lying dead on the muddy ground in a nearby street. He’d been so sure of his skills when he’d faced the marauder. His anger had been so intense that he’d felt invincible. The images of Juanjo’s ripped face and his mother pleading for revenge should have been enough to spur him on to victory through rage alone, but in truth, his rage had probably been the cause of his defeat.
“They won’t stop. They’ll come after me again,” he said to no one in particular.
Juan’s forehead was furrowed with worry. His hair was untidy and looked as though it had not been washed for weeks. “I agree,” he said grimly. “Give me your sword, son.”
“Why do you want his sword?” Isa asked, frowning.
“I’m going to heat it in the fire and burn the wound.”
“No. I’ll use a needle and thread. I’m going to close the slash,” she told him. “Fetch me a bunch of comfrey or elm herbs. They’ll ease the pain … And bring some dried figs for the infection. Knock on every door until you get them. Hurry.”
When Juan left the house to look for the herbs that Isa requested, she rinsed out the rag and then hunted for a needle and thread. “There’s nothing of any use in this house,” she grumbled after a few minutes. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Keep your arm still and don’t move from that chair.”
David stared unseeingly at the hearth and the softly glowing fire within it. First his mind was filled with thoughts and regrets, and then it was filled with images of swords sparking together as though they would ignite. Even now, he heard the echoing, ringing clash of steel. He touched his painful jaw and felt the marauder’s fist raining punches on his face. He still tasted the thick mud that had splashed into his mouth and slipped down his throat. Finally, he saw his own image, carelessly dropping his guard and exposing his arm to the marauder’s blade.
Isa had meticulously ground the elm herbs to just the right texture and had placed them inside the open wound. When she had sewed the final stitch, completely closing the gaping slit, she smothered the stitches and the surrounding area with powdered figs and then bound the arm in a linen rag. She had given David comfrey herbs for the pain before she’d begun her ministering, insisting that he chew them and then swallow them with his saliva.
Juan sat patiently, knowing that interfering in the healing process would mean a tongue-lashing from Isa. He had never had such dark or dismal thoughts. What could he say or do to help his son? he kept asking himself. David could live in the prison. He would be safe there. But he couldn’t stay there forever, shutting himself away just to stay alive.
“Listen to me, David. We will survive this,” Juan finally said. “As soon as we have enough money, we’ll leave Sagrat, and if we have to, we’ll cross the nearest border and get out of Spain.”
“Leave our country?” Isa said, looking horrified. “And go where?”
“To another country,” Juan said. Looking about him, he added, “Pack what little we have. We’re not spending another night in this hovel.”
The sudden sound of men shouting filtered into the house through the shutter slats. Juan instinctively grabbed the poker lying at the side of the hearth. David got to his feet and with Isa’s help put on his tunic and chain mail vest. Picking up his sword, he said, “They’ve come for me.”
“How did they know you were here?” Isa asked, clearly panic-stricken.
Juan said, “I suppose he was followed.”
The door rattled with heavy knocking. Juan, Isa, and David stared at the vibrating wood.
Tears were streaming down Isa’s face. “Oh God, no … David, hide. Please hide,” she begged.
“There is no hiding place, Mama,” said David, still looking at the door.
“By order of the inquisitor, come outside immediately!” a shout rang out.
The Inquisition? What new gloom was this? Juan wondered. Would they drag David away like a criminal? “Son?” he said miserably.
“It’s all right, Papa.”
Juan opened the door and stepped into the street. David put his helmet on and followed his mother, who had covered her head with a thin blanket.
The torrential downpour had eased but still fell in a soft misty spray. Men, women, and children had already gathered outside, bunched together and looking terrified.
Juan put his arm around Isa’s shoulders and held her to him.
The men-at-arms, or familiars, as they liked to be called, had become a common sight in Sagrat. Two of them stood apart from the crowd, dripping water from their hair and armour, but neither seemed in any hurry to announce the reason for their summons.
One of the inquisitor’s men held a piece of parchment that was getting wet, and he tried to shield it with his cloak. Juan stared at them, and he realised after a moment or two that neither man was paying attention to anyone in particular.
David, standing much taller than the rest of the neighbours and dressed in a soldier’s uniform, stood out amongst the others, yet they never looked at him. They seemed more intent on making sure that all the neighbours were present. Juan choked back his tears. The men were not here for David.
“What’s going on?” Juan whispered to a neighbour.
“I don’t know, but I wish they would hurry up and tell us. We’ll all be drenched if we stand here much longer,” the neighbour grunted.
Standing behind his parents, David felt his heartbeat ease into a steady pace. Filled with relief, he could only guess that the neighbours were going to hear a decree which would involve the entire town.
Finally, one of the Inquisition men-at-arms read from the wet document. “By order of the Holy Office, Pope Innocent IV, and Their Majesties King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella …” He paused for effect. “The townspeople of Sagrat will, without an exception, attend High Mass this coming Sunday morning at the tenth ring of the church bell. Those who are able-bodied and do not attend will be punished!
“On completion of Mass, you will remain in the church and thus hear the edict given to you by the inquisitor, Gaspar de Amo. This town and its people living therein are now under the protection of the Inquisition and its canon law … That is all. Go about your business!”
After the familiars had left, Juan, Isa, and David huddled around the hearth.
Isa, holding Juan’s hand, asked, “David, do you know what this edict will say?”
Shaking his head, David said, “I haven’t heard anything about this High Mass, but I have seen instruments of torture at the prison. The inquisitor’s men speak of heavy duties to come and the prison overflowing with heretics. I fear the inquisitor is weaving a web. He is the spider, and we are his flies.”
David wanted to tell them about all the other dismal chatter he’d heard at the prison. The terms Judaists, heretics, errant flock, confessions, and punishments were in every conversation, as though his town had already been found guilty of breaking every religious law ever invented by man. If he survived Garcia and his marauder, he would see some very dark days. No one wo
uld be safe from the inquisitor, he thought, no one.
Chapter Thirty-Three
David unlocked the cell door and entered. The putrid smells that hit his nostrils were overpowering, worse than any he’d ever experienced before. The pungent odour of rotting pork lying on the dirt floor, which a couple of hungry rats were gnawing, made him gag. The stink of shit and pee running through the overflowing sewers and seeping up through the ground was heightened further by the stench of animal waste that had been thrown into the underground drains by the townspeople.
Rainwater dripped from the rock ceiling onto the ground, making a rhythmic popping sound and causing puddles to form in various areas. This was the first time David had seen the effects of wet weather inside the prison. He’d never noticed before how porous the granite stone was, how soggy the floor was, or just how inadequate the stone ceiling was at keeping out the rain.
The cells on this side of the prison formed part of a labyrinth of small caverns built into the hollowed rocks beneath the castle’s ground. Each cell had been modified with bars and stone walls to keep them enclosed and secure. In David’s mind, this part of the prison was suitable only for the rats that scurried across its floors. It had probably existed as a prison during the Roman occupation. There was certainly evidence to support this theory, for Paco had pointed out to him Latin writings on some of the walls. They should have filled the entire area with dirt when the last legion left Sagrat, David thought.
Huddling in the corner of the cell with her knees at her chest and her arms wrapped about them, Sinfa looked hopefully at him.
“Did you speak with the rabbi?” she asked with a hoarse voice.
David nodded. What could he say to her? He couldn’t lie, give her false hope, or make promises that he couldn’t keep. He could only give her bad news and hope that she would listen to his advice and see sense. He stepped closer and held the torch higher to brighten the space around her. She looked pitiful, he thought. Her gaunt face was filthy, and her hair hung limp and knotted around it, looking like a black hood. Her dress had torn just under the bodice. It was filthy, and there were probably enough bugs on it to chew off a mule’s ear.
David cleared his throat, feeling childishly uncomfortable at the sight of her bare skin.
“Did you speak to Rabbi Rabinovitch or not?” she insisted.
“I did at length, but it seems your rabbi is too afraid to speak out on your behalf. You won’t get any help from the Jewry. You must find your own way out of this.”
Her loud sobs filled the cell, drowning the noise of the dripping water and squeaking rats, which began scurrying away in fright. He wanted to hold her. No, he wished he could take her by the hand and run with her to safety.
“Convert. Throw yourself at the mercy of the inquisitor,” he begged her.
“I can’t … I can’t … I’m a Jew. I’ll go to hell if I convert,” she said, gasping for breath. “Oh God, help me! I can’t bear this another day!”
David got down on one knee and lifted her chin in his fingers. Her blackened face was streaked with white lines on her cheeks, where tears had washed away the dirt. “Listen to me. We are but flesh and bones housing souls, and whether they be Christian, Jew, or Muslim, it makes no difference to God. I believe that every soul will travel to heaven or hell together after our bodies die. Being Christian will not change who you are. I should know. I’m the same person now as I was when I was a Jew.”
“You were a Jew?”
David nodded.
“I can’t. I will shame my grandfather’s memory if I abandon my beliefs.”
“No, you won’t. He would not want you to suffer in this foul cell. The duke and his treasurer, Garcia, will not set you free, Sinfa. Your own people have abandoned you. If you refuse to eat the pork that’s given to you, you’ll starve; then you won’t have the strength to fight the diseases that must be lurking in this cell. You will never feel the sun on your face or breathe in fresh air. You will be in this place for years … Please heed my words.”
He could stay no longer. Rising to his feet, he urged her one last time. “You will have one opportunity to speak to the inquisitor before you are forgotten. Just one.”
“What do you mean you didn’t get a good look at the man’s face?” Paco insisted again. “You were stabbed in the arm, for God’s sake! You must have seen your attacker.”
David had spent the last hour trying to convince Paco that the wound on his arm had been caused by a thief trying to rob him of his purse. The rag covering David’s injury had not managed to stop a small amount of blood from seeping through onto the thin linen tunic’s sleeve, and Paco’s inquisitive character would not let go of the matter.
“As I said, I was taken by surprise. The attacker slashed my arm, and by the time I turned to face him, he was already running off down the street. That’s all there is to the story.”
“Christ’s blood, I’ve never met such an unlucky man. First your family’s farm gets burnt and then your brother gets killed, God rest his soul … and now you get stabbed with a dagger. David, you need to pray more often. You’re cursed!”
David almost smiled at Paco’s earnestness. “I do have good news. My mother and father have moved out of that terrible house. I helped them move into the house in your street, the one you told me about.”
Paco smiled. “It will be good to have you as a neighbour, David.”
“You say that now, but I warn you, Paco. If you bother my mother with questions as you do me, she’ll give you a tongue-lashing.”
Paco laughed. “I hope not, lad. I get enough lashings from that wife of mine.”
David sighed with relief when one of the inquisitor’s men-at-arms arrived. He hated lying to Paco.
Unlike the other familiars who had taken over the prison, this one was dressed in a partial suit of battle armour and looked as though he was going into battle. On his head, he wore an armet helmet. David had only ever seen a few of these, when he’d worked for the blacksmith. It was rounded at the top, like a bowl. It enclosed the man’s entire head and had hinged cheek plates, which the man had folded backwards. His gorget plate covered his neck and upper breast. David looked closely at it in the torchlight and noticed the Inquisition’s crest engraved just beneath a cross. He was fascinated with the amount of protection the man was wearing, from the bands of plate at his shoulders to his schynbald plates covering his shins.
“I’m surprised you can get up and down our great hill in that lot. Are you expecting an invading army?” Paco asked the man.
For the first time in days, David wanted to laugh. Paco would never learn to separate his thoughts from his tongue, he thought. One day his friend would get himself into trouble with his humour, which didn’t amuse everyone he met.
The familiar said sullenly, “Have you seen the hordes out there? We are prepared for anything, and you should be too. The inquisitor will arrive with the duke shortly, so best you tend to your business instead of sitting around like a couple of spent whores.”
David stood up and then looked at Paco, who still remained firmly in his seat with a furious scowl on his usually placid face.
“We have not been outside this prison for more than an hour or two in the past three days,” Paco said, refusing to stand. “We have not slept, eaten a decent meal, or sat on our arses for more than five minutes at a time. We live in filthy squalor not fit to house my goat, and we’re going blind, for lack of daylight. So I’ll thank you not to come prancing in here looking like a plated hog and giving opinions on what we should be doing with our time. State your business with us, soldier, familiar, or whatever you like to call yourself, and be done with it.”
David felt a rush of respect for Paco. He was the militia’s jester, never taking anything too seriously, always with a joke and a prank on hand when watches were tedious and long. Today, however, he was seeing Paco in a different light.
Looking at the man-at-arms’ reddened face, which looked like a slapped arse, he asked,
“What do you want?”
“Have the two prisoners that were brought in last night been prepared for interrogation?” the man-at-arms answered, throwing a contemptuous look Paco’s way. “The inquisitor will arrive shortly with his entourage.”
“We’ll do that,” Paco said.
David turned his thoughts to the task at hand. He should have checked on the prisoners’ state of health various times, but he had not. Instead, he’d hoped that the next time he entered their cells he’d find them dead of their injuries. He was ashamed for thinking that, but death for them now would be much better than what was to come.
Thinking about having to face the accused, knowing that they were innocent and that he was guilty, sickened him. What a coward he was. His hands were trembling, and his legs could hardly hold him upright. He wasn’t sure if his body shook because he was terrified of what was about to happen or if perhaps he was overcome by shame.
The thought of being sentenced to death twisted his gut and made him want to shit on the floor there and then. Imagine it, he thought, being tied to a stake and burnt alive; or being choked to death by a heavy rope and left dangling in the air; or hung, drawn, and quartered, watching pieces of his body being cut off whilst he still breathed … And worst of all, standing in front of the townspeople as a repugnant man who’d perpetrated the worst crime in Sagrat’s history. He’d be pelted with stones and cursed to the fires of hell before he took his last breath. He should tell the truth and save his soul and his sanity. It was what any decent man would do. But he wouldn’t. He didn’t have the courage to face a town spewing hatred at him or to face a gruesome death. He was a disgrace, and he always would be.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Torches standing in each of the four corners lit up the windowless chamber. On the ceiling, a candleholder with several branches cast long shadows and looked eerily like arms reaching out to those sitting beneath it. Thick iron-hinged rings with chains and shackles attached were hammered deep into the stone walls. A row of chairs was in the centre of the room, and behind them sat two scribes at desks overflowing with parchments, files, books, inkwells, and quills.
