‘I’ve no intention of turning into a cardsharp. As soon as I can get my mother out of this mess, I’ll leave the city. We’ll go . . .. to Granada, probably.’
Coca took a long swig of wine. ‘I’ll think about it,’ he said.
That first night Pablo Coca did his trick several times, and Hernando won enough to feel more comfortable. He returned to the inn, and before going up to his room went to the stables to see how Volador was. The horse was dozing between two small mules at a shared manger. Several muleteers and guests who could not pay for a room were also sleeping there. Volador sensed his master’s presence and snorted. Hernando went over to pat him.
‘What are you doing there, little man?’ he exclaimed when he saw a boy curled up on the straw between the horse’s front legs.
The boy, who could not have been more than twelve years old, opened a pair of huge brown eyes, but did not move. ‘I’m looking after your horse, sir,’ he said, in a calm voice that belied his years.
‘He could tread on you while you’re asleep,’ said Hernando, holding out his hand to help him up.
The lad made no attempt to take it. ‘He won’t do that, your honour. Volador – I heard you call him that when you arrived – is a good beast, and we’re already friends. He won’t step on me. I’ll take care of him for you.’
As if he had understood what the boy was saying, the horse lowered his head until he was nuzzling the lad’s tousled, filthy hair. This tender scene was in sharp contrast to the shouts, threats, dirty tricks, bets and greed of the gaming house that Hernando felt were still stuck to his clothes. He hesitated.
‘Come on, get out from under there. He could hurt you,’ he said finally. ‘Horses sleep too, and without wishing to he might . . .’
All at once he fell silent. The boy gave a sad smile, then he clutched on to one of Volador’s front legs in order to haul himself up. His own legs were shapeless stumps: they had been broken in a ghastly way. Hernando bent down to help him.
‘Goodness! What happened to you?’
The boy managed to stay upright by clinging on to Hernando’s shoulders. ‘What I find most difficult is staying on my feet,’ he said with a smile that revealed a few sparse broken teeth. ‘If you pass me those crutches, I could . . .’
‘What happened to your legs?’ Hernando asked with dismay.
‘My father sold them to the devil,’ the boy replied in all seriousness.
Their faces were inches away from each other.
‘What do you mean?’ Hernando whispered.
‘My brother had his arms and hands smashed. With me it was my legs. My elder brother José told me that shortly after I was born I cried a lot when my father broke my bones with an iron bar. After that, they all wondered if I was going to survive. All of us are crippled in some way. I remember my parents blinded my little sister with a hot wire in her eyes only two months after she was born. She cried and cried as well,’ the boy added sadly. ‘You see, more people give alms if there’s a crippled child with you.’ Hernando could feel his hair standing on end. ‘The problem is that the King prohibits beggars asking for money if they’ve got children aged over five with them. The bailiffs and parish priests can take away their permits to beg if they are found with any children older than that. I was allowed to carry on a while longer because I’m so tiny, but when I was seven they abandoned me. So you can see, your honour: my legs for seven years of alms.’
Hernando could not think what to say. His throat seized up. He knew that some parents abused their children cruelly in order to stir people’s compassion enough to give them a wretched coin or two, but he had never seen the reality of this treatment so close to. So you can see, your honour: my legs for seven years of alms. The boy’s words were so heart-rending . . . he had a sudden urge to hold him in his arms. How long had it been since he embraced a child? He cleared his throat.
‘Are you sure Volador will not step on you?’ he asked eventually.
The boy’s broken teeth reappeared with his smile. ‘I’m certain. Ask him.’
Hernando patted Volador’s neck and helped the boy lie down again between his front legs.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked as the lad curled up into a ball and closed his eyes for sleep.
‘Miguel.’
‘Look after him well, Miguel.’
That night Hernando did not sleep. After writing to Don Pedro in Granada he had only one clean sheet of paper left, one quill and a small pot of ink. He sat at the rough, dilapidated table, blew the dust off it, and by the light of a flickering candle started to write, with all his nerves stretched to the limit. His mother, Miguel, the gambling, that dark and dismal room, the noises from the other guests disturbing the calm of the night . . . the quill slid across the sheet of paper, tracing the most beautiful Arabic characters he had ever written. Without thinking about it, as if it were God guiding his hand, he wrote out in full the profession of faith that had led to his mother being locked in the Inquisition’s dungeons: ‘There is no god but God, and Muhammad is the messenger of God.’ Then he prepared to continue with the prayer in the way the Moriscos did. He dipped the quill in the ink, the image of Hamid suddenly springing into his mind. He had made him recite it in the church at Juviles to show he was not Christian. What if he had died at that moment? ‘Know,’ Hernando added, reciting the Morisco profession of faith: ‘Know that all people must understand there is only one God . . .’ He would have been spared such a hard life, thought Hernando, dipping the quill into the ink once more.
The next morning Volador was not in the stables; nor was Miguel. Hernando shouted for the innkeeper.
‘They went out,’ the man told him. ‘The boy told me you had given him permission to do so. One of the muleteers sleeping in the stable confirmed you asked him to look after the horse.’
Hernando ran in a rage to Plaza del Potro. Had the boy fooled him? What if Volador had been stolen? He came to a halt as he entered the square: Miguel was standing there, one arm on a crutch, his legs bent under him, watching the horse drink from the fountain basin. Volador’s coat shone in the still gloomy morning: he had obviously brushed him.
‘He was thirsty,’ the boy explained when he saw Hernando standing beside him.
The horse turned his head to one side and dribbled some of the water it had been drinking on to Miguel. The boy nudged his head back with the top of one of the crutches. Hernando looked on: they seemed to understand one another. Miguel guessed what he was thinking.
‘Animals want to be with me as much as people want to avoid me,’ he said.
Hernando sighed. ‘I have things to do,’ he said, handing him a two-real coin, which the boy took with eyes as big as saucers. ‘Look after him.’
Hernando headed off towards Calle del Potro, then walked down it towards the fortress where his mother was being held. As he entered the street, he turned to look back, and saw the boy on his crutches playing next to the fountain, flicking water at Volador. Both of them seemed completely absorbed in their game. Hernando set off again when he saw Miguel decide to return to the stables. He did not hold the halter, but simply draped its rope over his shoulder. Although the horse was free, it followed him meekly like a dog. Hernando shook his head. Volador was a pure Spanish thoroughbred, lively and highly strung. Normally he would have been spooked by someone hopping along in front of him, but apparently not by Miguel, who was using his crutches to keep his feet off the ground, as if he might damage his wizened, deformed legs even more if they touched it.
Hernando reached the Christian monarchs’ fortress, still impressed by the way Miguel hopped along and Volador meekly followed him. He was even more surprised when, on reaching the dungeons, the jailer (who until then had refused to let him see his mother) accepted the gold coin that Hernando had half-heartedly pulled out of his purse. He had won it the previous night in a game of Twenty-one, when his ace and king had provoked a thousand curses from the other players betting against him.
In this dazed s
tate he followed the jailer into a big courtyard with a fountain surrounded by orange and other trees. The yard would have been beautiful had it not been for the moans and groans from the cells overlooking it. Hernando listened carefully: could some of them be coming from his mother? The jailer showed him to a cell in the far corner of the patio, and Hernando went in through a solid wooden door set in thick walls. No, there was no sound at all from this squalid, miserable place.
‘Mother!’
Hernando knelt beside a motionless bundle on the dirt floor. His hands shook as he searched for Aisha’s face in the folds of the rough tunic. He had difficulty recognizing her as the person who had given birth to him. The skin hung from her shrunken neck and cheeks. Her eyes were sunken and discoloured, her lips dry and cracked. Her hair was filthy and matted.
‘What have you done to her?’ he growled at the jailer. The man made no reply, but stood lurking in the broad doorway. ‘She’s only an old woman . . .’ At this, the jailer shifted from one foot to another and scowled at Hernando. ‘Mother,’ the Morisco repeated, taking Aisha’s head in his hands and bringing it up to his lips to kiss her. She did not respond. Her eyes were glazed over. For a moment, Hernando thought she might be dead. He shook her gently and she stirred.
‘She’s crazy,’ said the jailer. ‘She refuses to eat and hardly even drinks. She doesn’t say anything, even to complain. She’s like this all day long.’
‘What did you do to her?’ Hernando asked again, his voice faltering. He was scraping obstinately at a small patch of dirt on his mother’s forehead as he spoke.
‘We’ve done nothing to her.’ Hernando turned to look at the man. ‘It’s true,’ the jailer insisted, spreading his palms. ‘The Inquisition judged that the bailiff’s evidence was sufficient to condemn her. I’ve told you she won’t speak, so they decided there was no point torturing her. She would have died.’ Hernando turned back to see if his mother reacted in any way to this. She did not. ‘No one would be surprised if she died . . . this very night . . .’
Hernando, cradling his mother in his arms with his back to the jailer, said nothing. What was the man suggesting?
‘She could die,’ said the jailer from the doorway. ‘The doctor has already warned the tribunal of that. Nobody would think twice about it. Nobody would come to check. I would be the one to announce it, and to bury the body . . .’
So that was it! That was why he had allowed him to visit.
‘How much?’ he asked.
‘Fifty ducats.’
Fifty! Hernando had been about to offer five, but bit his tongue. Was he going to bargain for his mother’s life?
‘I don’t have them,’ he said.
‘In that case . . .’ The jailer turned to go.
‘But I do have a horse,’ Hernando said in a low voice, staring into Aisha’s lifeless eyes.
‘I didn’t hear you. What did you say?’
‘That I have a good horse,’ said Hernando, trying his best to speak louder. ‘With the brand of the royal stables. He’s worth far more than fifty ducats.’
The deal was for that same night. Hernando would exchange Volador for Aisha. What did he care about money? It was simply an animal against . . . against perhaps no more than the chance to bury his mother, for her to die in his arms. Perhaps God would permit her to open her eyes at that moment, and he should be there. He had to be at her side! Aisha could not die without him having the chance of being reconciled with her.
Miguel was back sitting on the ground by Volador, watching the horse eat some grass he had put in the manger.
‘I’m sorry,’ Hernando said, kneeling down and ruffling his hair. ‘I’m selling the horse tonight.’ Why was he apologizing? he wondered. Miguel was only a little waif who—
‘No,’ the boy replied, interrupting his thoughts but not turning towards him.
‘What do you mean, no?’ Hernando did not know whether to be amused or angry.
Now Miguel did look up at him, as Hernando straightened and stood next to the horse. ‘Your honour, I’ve been with dogs, cats, cage-birds and once even a monkey. I always know when they are going to come back . . . and I always sense when it will be the last time I see them. Volador will come back to me,’ he said solemnly, ‘I know it.’
Hernando looked down at the boy’s crushed legs stretched out on the straw. ‘I won’t argue about it. You may be right. But I’m afraid, if that is the case, it won’t be with me.’
When the bells rang for compline, Hernando led Volador from the stables and headed up Calle del Potro to the mosque. They had agreed to meet in Plaza del Campo Real, next to the fortress. Hernando could not bear to ride the horse, but led it on a halter, without looking back. Miguel followed them as best he could. When Hernando reached the square, he aimed for one of the corners where, as almost everywhere else, there were big piles of rubbish. It was in the middle of this mess that the exchange was to take place. Miguel came to a halt a few yards away from the spot where Hernando was peering into the darkness, trying to make out the jailer carrying his mother. He attached no importance to the boy’s strange way of standing, his legs oddly braced against the ground, leaning on one crutch and holding the other in his right hand above his head. Volador was nervous: he snorted, shifted, and even threatened to rear.
‘Whoa, calm there,’ said Hernando, ‘calm down, pretty one.’
As he patted the horse’s neck, Hernando thought Volador must have realized he was going to be parted from him. Just at that moment an enormous rat squeaked and ran out between Hernando and Volador’s legs. It was immediately followed by another, then another. Hernando leapt to one side. Volador bucked, pulled free and galloped off in terror. Balancing as best he could, Miguel tried to hit the rats with one of his crutches.
Volador’s frightened neighing roused the attention of all the other horses in the royal stables next to the fortress. They soon added their snorts and neighs to the uproar. The gatekeeper and two stable lads came out to the street that gave on to Plaza del Campo Real and were astonished to see a magnificent dappled horse charging along, trailing its halter rope.
‘A horse has got out!’ one of the lads shouted.
The gatekeeper was about to tell him he was sure none of the horses had escaped from the stables, but he fell silent when by the light of one of the torches on the walls of the Inquisition headquarters he clearly saw the royal brand on the flank of the fleeing steed.
‘Run after him!’ he shouted.
Hernando was also chasing after Volador. How was he going to set his mother free with all this tumult going on? The jailer would never appear. Miguel had moved away from the rats and was standing still, admiring the strength and beauty of the galloping horse, yet again cursing his useless legs. ‘He’ll be back,’ he whispered after Hernando. More people came pouring out of the royal stables, and from the fortress as well, through the gate where during the day a cloth market was held. Hernando stopped running when he saw that half a dozen men had succeeded in cornering Volador against one of the fortress walls.
Blowing hard, the horse allowed one of them to seize the halter.
‘He’s mine!’ Hernando shouted, joining the group and cursing the rats as he did so. Why had he not thought of that when the jailer suggested the meeting place?
The staff from the royal stables soon verified that the horse was not one of their colts.
‘You ought to be more careful,’ one of them reproached him, ‘he could hurt himself in the dark.’
Hernando did not bother to answer, but took the halter from him. What did those wretches know?
‘Aren’t you the one who comes to visit the madwoman every day?’ one of the Inquisition guards asked.
Hernando frowned, but said nothing. How often had he asked this same man for permission to see his mother, only to be refused disdainfully, because instead of doing his job he was far more interested in what was being sold in the square?
‘It’s about time you came to collect her,’ another of t
he guards said. ‘If you wait another couple of days, she’ll be dead.’
The halter rope slipped from Hernando’s hand, but before it could touch the ground, it was intercepted by a rough wooden crutch. Hernando turned towards Miguel, who smiled his broken-toothed smile as he grasped the rope in his hand. Had the guard said it was high time he came to collect his mother? What did he mean by that?
‘What . . .?’ he stammered. ‘What about her punishment? And the auto-da-fé?’
‘The Inquisition held a special tribunal a few days ago in the courtroom. They sentenced your mother to the wearing of a penitential cloak and to going to mass daily for a year, although given her state of health, I don’t think she’ll complete her sentence. And no one really wants a crazy woman like her to set foot on holy ground,’ said one of the men. ‘That’s why they held the hearing. The Inquisition doctor told them your mother would not survive until the next general auto-da-fé, but they wanted to try her before she died. She’s mad! Come and take her with you!’
‘Yes, hand her over to me,’ Hernando managed to stammer out, realizing as he did so that the jailer had tried to trick him.
Shortly afterwards, Hernando was walking back towards the Potro inn with his mother in his arms.
‘There’s no need for you to take her to church!’ one of the guards shouted after him.
‘My God, she’s lighter than a feather!’ Hernando cried out to the starry sky as he passed by the wall enclosing the mihrab of his mosque.
Miguel followed them, Volador’s halter rope draped over his shoulder. The horse walked along placidly, as though anxious not to get ahead of him.
56
THE FUNERALS of the Duke of Monterreal and his eldest son were as sad as they were solemn, because of the impossibility of giving them a proper Christian burial. In the cathedral, the bishop invoked the name of the sheriff of Clare, Boetius Clancy (the man responsible for their deaths), and called on God never to let him out of purgatory. From that day on, he declared angrily, every seven years the same call would be made, in order to remind the Lord that the vile murderer should never escape punishment.
The Hand of Fatima Page 74
