The Errant Flock

by Jana Petken

  “You can see that there is indeed a mark on the baby’s back,” De Amo said quite calmly, “but I would like you to listen to what the nurse has to say before you come to any ridiculous conclusions about my grandson’s heritage.” Nodding to the nurse, he continued. “Tell them what you told me.”

  The nurse, a small rounded woman wearing a headscarf and thick white apron over her dull dress, flicked her eyes nervously at the three men and then couldn’t seem to stop herself from taking an anxious deep breath. “I was present at the infant’s birth, your mercies,” she began. “I helped the physician bathe him just minutes after he came into the world. I remember seeing the red mark on his back because it was so distinctive. I thought at the time that I had never seen anything like it on a baby’s body. I assure you that this is the duchess’s child, borne from her womb …”

  The viceroy was granted a private audience with De Amo, whilst Father Bernardo, Tur, and the magistrate were ordered to wait for further instructions in the great hall. Trepidation tore through Tur’s body as he sensed an invisible rope tightening around his neck. Standing some distance away from Father Bernardo and the magistrate gave him time to observe them and to think about how he was going to save his hide from an arrest, which was looking increasingly more likely.

  The priest wrung his hands and sat staring at one particular spot on the wooden table. The magistrate, on the other hand, flicked his eyes around the hall, jumped at the slightest sound, and continuously bit his lips. Neither looked Tur’s way, nor did they speak to each other.

  Tur wondered if they were as scared as he was and if perhaps they were regretting making the accusations against Peráto. Powerful men literally got away with murder and every other sin spawned by the devil. Accusers were more likely to be murdered for opening their mouths than the noble being accused of perpetrating a crime. And to point a finger at a member of the Holy Council for covering up a crime was unheard of, he reminded himself. Heads would roll, maybe even the viceroy’s, should any more accusations against the inquisitor’s family be pursued further. It made sense that his head would roll first.

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Appearing worried and seemingly indecisive, the viceroy paced up and down the great hall and repeatedly refused Father Bernardo’s request that he sit down. His arms were crossed in a defensive position. His hands lay on each forearm, and his fingers tapped his skin, making an irritable noise which sounded like dripping rainwater. Despite all his intentions, Tur couldn’t drag his eyes away. His heartbeat had quickened the moment the viceroy had walked into the great hall, mumbling under his breath and continually pushing his hair back from his forehead, even though it wasn’t unruly.

  Staring angrily at the magistrate and Father Bernardo, the viceroy finally said, “There is no more to be done regarding the infant. We can neither prove nor disprove the claims that have been made by the grandparents or the nurse. It would seem we are at an impasse. The inquisitor will never give the baby up to us.”

  “My Lord, the birthmark!” Tur inadvertently cried out. “The grandparents knew about it? Is that not proof enough?”

  “No, it is not, Tur,” Father Bernardo said hurriedly. “Workers in the castle often tell tales about what goes on here to their neighbours. There are gossiping shrews in every street. Perhaps the nurse spoke to people about the mark.”

  “I’ll wager my little pinky that that’s not the case, Padre,” the viceroy said impatiently. “Magistrate, what do you have to say about this?”

  Strangely pensive, the magistrate seemed to be either wavering in his opinion or was perhaps too afraid to call the inquisitor a liar. Shaking his head as though searching for the right words, he answered. “I believe it’s time we either speak to the duke or leave.”

  “I think we should go now. Arrest Captain Tur and his militia and put this sordid matter to rest,” Father Bernardo said in an agitated tone. “The town has suffered enough.”

  Tur was becoming increasingly alarmed by father Bernardo’s demands, and only the certainty of being in the right gave him the strength to carry on. Bringing himself up to his full height, he found this the perfect time to get the men to focus their attention on the duke. “Your Mercies, begging your pardon, I have been informed that the duke’s valet has been trying unsuccessfully to get into His Grace’s chamber since early morning. My men have tried to open the door and have banged on it repeatedly, but there has been no answer from within.”

  “Then he is out somewhere or he does not want to be disturbed,” Father Bernardo said harshly.

  “I don’t believe so, Padre. The doors cannot be locked from the inside unless someone is actually in the chamber.”

  “Lord above in heaven, it’s possible that this is becoming the most unsettling affair I have ever had to deal with,” the viceroy said, slamming his fists on the table. Without waiting for the others, he strode from the hall, shouting to Tur over his shoulder as he went. “Show me the way to the duke’s chambers, Captain. I will not leave this castle until I have an answer to something or other!”

  Tur knocked loudly on the door. When there was no response from within, he waited a minute or two and then thumped the thick iron-studded wood with his fist. “Your Grace, His Excellency, the viceroy, is here on urgent business!”

  “Open it,” the viceroy said when there was no answer the second time.

  It took time, but eventually a ramming device comprised of a smooth tree trunk with two handles on opposite ends was brought and placed in front of the doors. Tur gave the order to strike, but the doors were built to withstand a major assault, and it took some time for the wooden bar on the inside of them to finally crack and then snap into two pieces.

  After drawing his sword, Tur entered, followed by the three dignitaries, the duke’s valet, and Paco, who had been one of the men banging on the doors earlier. The chamber was empty, and for a moment, all of them stood mystified and in silence. Going to the long, narrow shuttered window, Tur noticed that it was also barred. Not that anyone would be foolish enough to jump out of it, he thought. Frowning at the mystery, he asked the valet, “Is there any other exit?”

  “No, the only other room in here is the wardrobe, where the duke’s clothes are kept. It’s behind that curtain.”

  Tur walked into an anteroom and looked around. All he could see were stacks of tunics, breeches, cloaks, boots, hats, and all other manner of clothing. How could one man wear everything in here in a single lifetime? he couldn’t help but wonder. Then, directing his oil-lit torch to one particular cabinet, he saw the partially hidden hole beside it.

  The viceroy stood behind him, and behind him the magistrate and Father Bernardo, who was clutching his rosary at his chin and kissing the wooden crucifix attached to the beads. Without words, Tur slipped into the hole. Seeing the stairs, he shouted for the others to follow, and then he descended to the bottom.

  Tur stood open-mouthed, stunned, and panting with shock. Feeling as if he’d been struck dumb, he could only manage to point to the duke’s dead body lying on the ground.

  Father Bernardo moaned like a man in agony. The viceroy gasped and instinctively put his hands to his throat. The magistrate clamped his hand over his mouth. His eyes widened and looked as though they were about to pop out of his head, but neither he nor the others seemed to be able to utter a single word.

  Tur tried to concentrate on the scene. His mind knew what he was seeing: Luis Peráto, the duke of Sagrat, had been murdered in a secret chamber and was lying beside the two chests of coin that had been stolen from the municipal palace on the day of the auto-de-fé. The words sounded ridiculous in his mind, and they would sound even more fanciful if he were to say them aloud. But it was true.

  “Holy Mother of Jesus,” the viceroy said, breaking the silence.

  “God have mercy on us,” the magistrate uttered under his breath.

  And Father Bernardo wept.

  Tur managed to calm himself enough to focus on the rest of the chamber. An ope
ning on the wall covered by an iron grill, which was ajar, drew his attention first. Getting on his knees, he poked his lit torch inside and saw that a tunnel stretched as far as his eyes could see. “Crawl into that tunnel and follow it to its end,” he ordered Paco.

  Watching Paco’s figure disappear into the darkness, Tur thought, If that tunnel comes out on the hill, I’ll feel ashamed for not knowing about it, and so I should. “I knew nothing about this tunnel or this chamber,” he said sheepishly to the viceroy.

  The viceroy ordered the valet to send for more soldiers and asked Tur, “What can you tell us about his death?”

  Studying Peráto’s body more closely, Tur answered, “It would appear that the duke died of a single slash to his throat, and I can see no reason to believe he put up a fight. There are no defensive wounds or signs of a struggle.”

  “He does look surprised,” Father Bernardo said, getting on his knees to pray. “God have mercy on his soul!”

  The magistrate stared at the two chests of coin and shook his head as though his mind was denying the sight of them. “It’s impossible. How did he manage to get them in here?”

  Bending down, Tur pointed his torch’s flame into the hole in the wall. “My man should be back soon. He’ll tell us where this tunnel leads.” Staring again at the chests engraved with the duke of Sagrat’s family seal, he said in a grim voice, “It might be wide enough to take the chests, but the duke would have needed a lot of help to pull them in here. He certainly didn’t get past my men standing guard outside the chamber’s doors …”

  The viceroy, looking furious but with not a hint of sympathy for Luis, said, “I care not a whit how or why he did what he did. He was obviously demented. I am only concerned with what I now believe to be true.” Taking a last look at Luis, whose eyes were wide open and staring up at the ceiling, he added, “He played with the devil and got burnt, I’ll wager. Tur, I am wrong in presuming that his marauder friends killed him, turning on him like the dogs they are.”

  “No, I don’t believe you are wrong. It would appear that is the case, my lord. It’s the only explanation.”

  The viceroy then said, “I don’t think we need to investigate this further. It’s obvious to me that the duke colluded with thieves and murderers to rob the municipal palace, murder innocent people, and set fire to this town. These,” he said, wagging his finger at the chests of coin, “are all the evidence I need to write a formal report to the king, in which I will charge the duke with atrocious crimes. I will demand that the Peráto family and their heirs lose their claim on the dukedom and that their family name be stained … Now get me out of this stinking hole and take me to the inquisitor!”

  Chapter Sixty-six

  The inquisitor winched and breathed deeply as his chamberlain eased the coarse tunic over the bleeding wounds criss-crossing his back. He shivered. The pain was excruciating, yet it brought him comfort amidst the chaos. Listening to the commotion outside his chamber, he could somehow picture exactly what was happening. His daughter was screaming at his men-at-arms, who were trying to lift her out of her bed. Other familiars, grunting with exertion, were currently removing her belongings from the castle. And Josefa’s ladies-in-waiting, crying with helplessness, were running away from their duties and their duchess.

  He sat for a moment to pray and reflect. In a short while, his carriages and entourage would leave Sagrat. He had come to this town with high expectations for success. How could he not triumph? he’d thought. His son by law was the duke! He had expected exalted praise for his good works, yet here he was, leaving weeks earlier than planned, with a tarnished reputation and the memory of a failed mission. The auto-de-fé was supposed to have been a glorious occasion, the pinnacle of his career, but instead it would be remembered as the day the devil walked into Sagrat and stole God’s thunder. He would never recover from this humiliation.

  Outside in the courtyard, De Amo stood by a carriage, saying nothing when Josefa was unceremoniously bundled into it, kicking and biting whatever flesh her teeth could find. Taking a long, lingering look at Luis Peráto’s castle, he forced back the anger and bitterness that twisted like a knife in his gut. His eyes went to the baby he cradled in his arms. His grandson would not become a duke, live in this castle, or be entitled to the king’s favours. No noble would forgive the Peráto family, not in his grandson’s lifetime. They would talk about Gaspar not as a duke’s son and grandson of Aragon’s inquisitor but as an imposter stolen from his rightful family.

  Sitting in the carriage, he told his chamberlain to close the curtains. He would not look at the burnt streets or succumb to the suspicious gazes of common people judging him. They were judging him! Sinners, all of them! He was seething with resentment. Luis Peráto had destroyed his ambitions and had left him fighting to hold on to his position as inquisitor. An inquisitor did not lose over one hundred heretic prisoners and survive …

  Militiamen set to work blocking the secret tunnel’s entrance and exit holes. The duke’s body had been taken to the castle’s chapel, where Father Bernardo intended to say a prayer or two later that day, before a couple of militiamen buried Pérato’s body in the family vault. No town council members, townspeople, or dignitaries had been invited to the burial ceremony, and to seal the duke’s disgrace, the viceroy had forbidden that a guard of honour be present.

  Tur stood on the battlements and looked out over the plain. Somewhere marauders were wandering free, too far away now to be caught and probably too clever to ever return to Sagrat. He was baffled. He would always be at a loss to understand exactly what had transpired in his town – why the marauders had not taken the two chests of coin and their reasons for killing the duke were two burning questions that would probably remain unanswered until the day he died - None of it made sense.

  “Sagrat will heal now,” he remarked to Paco, who was standing beside him.

  “The burnt tracts of land will scar this town for years to come, but yes, we will heal,” Paco answered. “What will happen to the militia?”

  Without looking at Paco, Tur said. “We will become a provincial militia under the viceroy’s command. And we will continue to protect this town and its people, to the best of our abilities, although I don’t believe that we have proven ourselves worthy, these past few weeks.”

  “I suppose we will never know who killed Sergio Garcia. Is that investigation closed?”

  “It is.”

  In silence, Tur watched the Inquisition’s caravan kick up dust on the plain as it headed south towards Valencia. His mouth spread in a rare smile, and in another rare gesture, he patted Paco’s arm.

  “Morales, the Inquisition will return one day to terrorize and burn people in malignant displays of faith, but it would appear that this particular inquisitor is no longer interested in Sagrat’s errant flock.”

  “What will happen to the incarcerated? Seventy escaped prisoners have been recaptured. Where will we house them?”

  Tur shrugged. “In our very overcrowded prison. Where else? I imagine they will remain there until the Inquisition returns to deal with them.”

  “That could be months from now … years,” Paco said angrily.

  “Then we shall be patient,” Tur said.

  Epilogue

  Cartegena, Spain

  June 1492

  The port of Cartagena sat at the edge of a great plain and was bordered at the north and the north-west by pre-coastal mountain ranges. The town, limited by five small hills with an inner sea between them, was not affluent or pretty, and to the dismay of its people, had been allowed to fall into decadence and decay ever since the king annexed it to Aragon.

  Near the Roman amphitheatre, where the sea met the land, a gathering of Jews prayed with soft voices and with one eye open for the militia, who wouldn’t waste a minute in scattering them. The noisy port behind their backs was congested with boats of every type, from basic punts which moved with agility even in shallow water to the larger, more imposing merchant ships with trapezoid s
ails that navigated the open seas.

  Cartagena was also congested with Jews being exiled from Spain. The expulsion decree, issued on the last day of March in Granada, had been made public less than three months after the Catholic monarchs’ victory against the Muslims in Granada. The Jews had half expected the announcement. The Christians had defeated the Moors, and now they wanted to get rid of the Jews and unite Spain under one faith.

  David stood amongst the congregation celebrating a brief Shabbat service, which would be, for some of them, the last they would ever attend in Sefarad, the Jews’ name for Spain. He wondered what the congregation was thinking. Were they concentrating on the prayers or were they, like him, swathed in sorrow and still trying to come to terms with the cruelty being directed against the their race?

  He would never forget that terrible day in April, when he, Diego, and Sinfa had happened upon a public reading of the king’s edict regarding the fate of all Spanish Jews. The memory of the callous words read by a rabbi barely able to speak, and with grief drowning his voice, would haunt him until the day he drew his last breath.

  Forgetting where he was for a moment, he grunted with disdain and then quickly snapped his mouth shut in embarrassment. The Jews, given only four months to convert to Christianity or leave the country, had been promised royal protection and security until the day of their departure. That had turned out to be the king’s first false pledge, David thought.

  Looking at a wealthy Jew he’d met only that morning, standing with head bowed next to the rabbi, David wondered how the man would take to a new life without money, servants, or familiar comforts. Jews, in accordance with Their Majesties’ declaration, were being allowed to take their belongings with them, with the exception of gold, silver, minted money, and other things prohibited by the laws of Castile and Aragon. In other words, they could take nothing of value.