by Kit Brennan
He was speaking, no, screaming. His thin lips quickly became coated with white spittle and saliva. I made out about two words in ten, but together they painted a portrait of diseased ambition. He raved about the praise he was sure to reap from his society, for having rid the world of two more whores—for whores they surely were, mother and child. How the society would adulate him for bringing to them a living witch, and what pleasure they would jointly take in dispatching this third whore. He yanked my hair and forced my head up, as he cried, “I am speaking, of course, as a member of the apostolic party’s terrorist wing: the Society of the Exterminating Angel!” There was more, much more, but my heart had quailed; I was busy surviving and it all swept over me, then, in a wave of undifferentiated hatred.
He ordered me outside, and we left the scene of death. What would happen to their bodies—one small, and one tiny? Who would stumble upon this scene of horror? Then I was up on Lindo, shoved and poked with the barrel of my tiny pistol, my hands now tied in front and under the saddle; he had readied the horse while I was still sleeping. If I were to faint or fall, bound in such a way, I would surely be trampled; neither Lindo nor I could get free. The Jesuit swung himself onto Conquistador, tethered to a tree nearby. He was taking me to these people, this society, he said; we would ride fast, he would not spare the horses. The stallion was acting badly, spooked and nervy; it was obvious the man had abused him in the time since the theft. As we rode, and as he raved, the priest applied the whip indiscriminately to the animal’s most sensitive area, between the ears, and he could not see that it was this that was making the horse ungovernable and, in his view, needful of ever more constant beatings.
We took another road, not the main one, but one that headed off at a completely different angle, through flat plains where wheat ripened on hot summer days. Now, flat nothing. Cold, dry wind. Nobody about, no one to call to for help—if they had dared. Simple country people, seeing a frantic, bound woman in blood-soaked trousers with a man of the cloth? Who were they to intervene?
As the initial shock wore off, perhaps, and the body’s instinct for preservation kicked in, I began to understand more of what the maniac was muttering, or shouting, as the spirit moved him: “A disgrace! Soon to be rectified once and for all. Church wealth was raided, given away! By that monkey of a king! Soon we will get it back, make them all pay! Return to the throne a king who properly fears God, who will reinstate the sacred Inquisition to rid the world of its rising impurities! And I will be part of that great whip of wickedness!” I desperately tried to put these words into some sort of perspective. King Ferdinand had siphoned off church monies and lands, but that was years ago and now the pretender, Don Carlos, was happily exiled in France. And terrorist wing of the apostolic party? What in God’s name was he talking about? Who and what was the Jesuit following?
We rode all day, the priest whipping Conquistador continually; both horses were labouring, their breath rasping painfully. He did not stop to rest them or water them. We did not stop to eat. I had no idea where we were, but he had begun to talk about Pamplona, the society’s base in the north, “near Logroño, site of Father Merino’s valiant campaign.” His voice took on a silky nostalgia as he said this. Racking my brain for the name, I finally recalled Ventura speaking about his brother before he’d found his vocation: young Miguel, following a warrior priest who’d gone north to join the Carlists, the veteran priest who so impressed his men because he neither slept nor ate. And here the former young man was, retracing those footsteps, neither eating nor sleeping. Heading for the lair of a fearsome, secret society, where I could expect a nest of others just as mad as he, perhaps only one day’s ride away.
Finally he called a halt, when the night was pitch black and Conquistador had stumbled so badly onto the road that the flesh over his right knee joint was torn and bleeding. The Jesuit untied my hands (numb, raw), pulled me out of the saddle, and flung me onto the ground. With my pistol, he gestured for me to lie still where I was. He hobbled the horses—no food, no water, still sweating in their skins! Conquistador’s leg was a bloody mess! They would be ill; horses can’t be treated so. Then he retied my hands and threw himself onto the ground, pistol at my temple. I had no idea whether he’d found one of the spare caps, kept in the faux book; as far as I knew, the others were still on me, in their intimate place on the ends of my nipples. Did he now know there was a second pistol, and black powder, in the book? If the pistol he had in his hand was primed, with the cap ready and waiting in the barrel, any slight jiggle could fire it straight into my brain.
“The day is nearly here,” he began to mutter, like a nasty schoolboy recounting the pleasures of pulling the wings from flies, “the day for which the Society of the Exterminating Angel has been working, in secret and in perpetuity. We will close the universities. We will curb the press. No more liberal backsliding. No more Neapolitan jezebels to waggle their white asses and claim to rule us.” He clarified himself with rabid asides: “Secret marriage, to a guardsman? With the aid of a corrupt papal nuncio? Armageddon! Death to the whores!” And there was a frightening crack as he fired the pistol—at first, I thought I had been shot, that I was dying, and then I feared for the horses, but no. He’d fired into the air, apparently, in excitement and anticipation. His words were thrilling to him. And it must mean he knew about the other pistol and the powder. Sweet baby Jesus. At that moment I wished I had died so I wouldn’t have to endure whatever it was that he was hideously planning, with me as main course, to be shared with a roomful of like-minded zealots.
Just as I’d thought he had finished his ravings for the night, he sidled his attenuated body closer and began to whisper. “When you had the temerity to ask if you should trust General de León? Do you remember this? I could smell him all over you! When you were asking if you should trust him—ha! You already had.” Oh my God, I cringed, he was going to list my faults; he had them all catalogued in his perverted mind. Another shriek: “Whore of Babylon!”
Then the priest laughed, an oily sound that a snake might make if a snake had lips. “And there you were, busy seducing our prime minister. Such a meddling little slut.” His body squirmed even closer; I could smell the putridity of his starvation breath and something else, some other scent that made alarm bells ring in my head, though I couldn’t then place it. “Princess Luisa Fernanda was almost mine, you puta, but you made me lose her. She could have helped pay for the sins of her mother. Too pretty, too beautiful, too pampered and spoiled. The pretty one first, because she is pretty—slit her throat and leave her to be found in the bowels of the Oriente. Then later the fat one . . . You ruined it. But she won’t escape me. I’ll go back for her. Another generation of whore. Must not be allowed to breed.”
He had waited a long time for the satisfaction of these disclosures. His joy was obscene.
Oh, how could I have so grossly underestimated the fanaticism of the man? I’d despised him, found him abhorrent, and so I’d ignored him, at my peril. It all seemed so clear. He was the double agent, infiltrating the Cristino conspiracies; he feared beauty, he feared women. How could I not have known?
He giggled and wriggled again. “I killed Tristany. Sent his ears in the box, just as I was leaving Spain to come to Grimaldi’s aid. We arrived almost at the same time, which I found very satisfying.” His voice was becoming sleepy, like a snake digesting. “You should know, too, I made good use of the earl of Malmesbury’s bank draft, puta. Sent it to my society. They purchased many rifles, and other implements of justice. Of course I knew you had something valuable hidden—fingering your hem all the way south in the coach, such a vain and puerile female.” He gingered himself up again with a hiss and gave me a painful poke in the throat with my little pistol. “I tried to hurl you from the top of the theatre, spawn of Satan! Showing your legs, with pride, to the audience! Lifting your skirts for anyone to see!” The scent, the stench, was in the air, and my senses suddenly placed it: the long paws of Pedro Coria, covering my mouth in the Paris stree
t, the hand at Clotilde’s throat, propelling her over the rail. I glanced down at the priest’s hands, just visible in starlight: one clutching my pistol, the other clenching and unclenching. Abnormally long yellow-white fingers, like spiders at the ends of his arms. Long, strong, cruel fingers, fastened around Clotilde’s neck, and then it became real: not Coria! It was the priest, all along!
“That pink dress,” he whispered then, as if following my thoughts, “the one I’d seen you in, the day Grimaldi introduced you to me—pink, decadent, like female flesh with all the extras adhering. I was going to stop you before you began. But you gave it to her, and so she died. I mistook her for you. But, no regret, she was a vain little bauble, perfectly dispensable. Grimaldi is a sentimental fool.”
He was scrabbling, one-handed, in a pouch he kept at his waist, and pulled forth a long thin cigarillo. Once he’d lit it, I understood even more: the scent on his hands, on those of Coria, the potent insistent smell. I recognized it from India, from our native porters and gardeners: It was ganja. Strong ganja.
“Pedro Coria,” I faltered. “You knew him; you told me so.”
“The Society of the Exterminating Angel will exult when it hears!” Oh God, then I wished I’d said nothing, for he was immediately frothing again, claiming that Coria the northerner was a turncoat, worked for a foreign organization, but the Society of the Exterminating Angel could never glean from him which one. Coria would smoke with the priest, they both had the compulsion, but Coria had never relaxed his guard—de la Vega could get nothing from him. “Foreign devil! Expunged!”
Then there was a horrible silence while he smoked and dreamed. Then he leaned even closer to whisper directly into my ear, in breath suffused with the scent of the drug. “That reminds me—Lola Montez. Your new persona?” I could hear his lips on his teeth, in what for the priest constituted a smile, and I closed my eyes, shuddering violently: There was only one place and only one time when he could have learned this. In the stable, with Diego. In the heat of our passion and joy. “Lola Montez will not be your shield,” the Jesuit promised, and then, “I wish I’d seen you fall from the fly tower. But if I had, I wouldn’t have this day of glory, in front of my society, to anticipate.” An unholy snigger came from his throat, followed by, “I warrant you’re sorry now that I had to endure your lecherous dream sounds, night after night. Aren’t you?”
“Yes.” I gave him what he wanted to hear. And it was the truth.
When morning came, Conquistador’s leg was crusted with blood and mud, and he had a bad limp. The Jesuit was in a foul temper over it.
“Let me free for a minute. Let me look at it and tend it,” I begged, almost beyond hope for myself, trying to focus my attention upon a tangible goal. “If you don’t, he’ll be no good to you. It’s the waste of a beautiful horse.”
“What do I care about beautiful horses?” the man snarled, but he eventually relented. He untied my hands and kept the pistol trained at my head while I led the horse to a stream. The stallion drank and drank, then began ripping hungrily at the grass while I bathed the leg and tried to clean it. I reached to tear the hem of my shirt—no longer white, but one of the only parts of me not spattered with Matilde’s blood.
“What are you doing?” the Jesuit cried, with real horror.
“The leg should be bound.”
“Leave your clothing alone! Succubus! You will do anything to corrupt me!”
I closed my eyes, let go of the shirt. If I looked at him, if I acknowledged his evil, my quailing heart told me, I wouldn’t survive another second. Eyes still closed, I went on, “Please. Please let me take the other horse to the stream. He’s so thirsty and hungry. They can’t go on.”
It angered him to listen to me, but he must have realized the truth of what I was saying. Carefully, I tethered the stallion, then went to Lindo and removed the hobbles. His eyes, dark and huge, regarded me, then I led him to the water. All the time, as I stroked the horse’s skin and his throat worked, drinking, my mind raced: These are my only chances. When my hands are free. How am I to get away? De la Vega will kill me the instant I make a move. He will kill Lindo. At the end of today, I may be in the clutches of the society. And then I will die.
But Pamplona is a city, and it is easier to hide in a city than on a flat plain. How to ensure he unties me again, long enough to—do what? Something, anything. No way to ensure a thing. But seize the opportunity. Is it now?
Too late. I suddenly felt the cold steel of the pistol against the back of my neck. “Time to go, whore.” I could smell the scent from his hands, again pungent and thick. Where was the powder bag and the other pistol?
Again, we rode. Conquistador’s leg began bleeding again almost immediately. It was sickening to see how gallantly the horse carried on, how he tried to obey the brutal human who kept torturing him with blows to the flanks, blows between the ears. I’ve never known such hatred—in the priest, but also growing within myself. Every time he struck a blow, my fury grew and my focus narrowed. My hands, again tied, began to go numb, but all that morning I concentrated on flexing and moving them, determined to seize it—whatever it was—at the next possible moment.
We rode past a group of field workers with hoes and spades over their shoulders. Feverishly, I debated whether to call out to them. That moment, too, passed. He turned back and smiled a yellow smile. “Good choice. We’re in the Navarre and you’re a Cristino—I will inform them. These people have long memories.”
“They’re human beings.”
“Unlike myself, do you infer? Oh no no. I am a Jesuit priest. The Navarre is the home of the sainted founder of our order. They are deeply religious. Why would anything that I do be under suspicion?” He was in that odd, exalted mood again, and I understood—it was the ganja. His only indulgence, but my, how he was indulging now.
Hour after hour we rode. As far as I knew, he had not eaten anything at all since flying down from the haymow to the bloody mess below. I certainly had not. I began to fear faintness, while trying to remain steeled for action. Such a state is exhausting, on no food or water, and for hours on end. Was it hopeless? Not quite yet. Or so I vowed.
Late afternoon, de la Vega’s energy again began to escalate, his mind to wander to the coming exhilaration. I sensed we were not as near the city as he’d hoped because of the stallion’s injured leg, and this was increasing the man’s agitation. He gave the horse another blow. Conquistador squealed and reared, and the priest nearly fell. He cursed, yanked at the reins, and flung himself to the ground. “Enough! This horse is useless!” and he dragged out my pistol, opened it, messily poured in the black powder, then flung the leather bag down from behind the saddle, searching for a cap to complete the loading—all the while dragging on the reins and causing the stallion to rear and startle.
“No!” I was screaming, “What are you doing? Let me ride him!” Then I thought of something. “If you kill him,” I said quickly, “there will only be one. You don’t want to ride on the same horse with me.” Just thinking of such proximity made me shudder. But, as I’d hoped, it made the priest shudder more.
He cursed again, dropped the stallion’s reins and came towards me. Conquistador danced and snorted at the sudden movement, then lifted his trembling leg and lowered his head. Stay there, I prayed. Remember your training, my beauty, just a little longer: When the reins are on the ground, you stay where you are. The Jesuit approached me with distaste, reaching up to untie my hands. To do so, he placed the pistol at his feet. Lindo, unusually, danced sideways, perhaps trying to get further from the noxious presence. “Calm, Lindo,” I told him. My hands were free. The priest bent immediately and retrieved the pistol, stuck it aggressively against my ribs as I was dismounting, poked me with it as I moved towards the stallion. And then—how it happened, why it happened, I have no idea, but it is true—I heard a loud squeal behind me, a grunt, and a thud. I wheeled around, and de la Vega lay sprawled on the ground, pistol in the dirt six feet from him. Lindo’s ears were flat to hi
s head: He had reared, striking the priest and knocking him down. Conquistador, galvanized, galloped stiffly off down the road, reins trailing. Carpe diem! I pounced on the pistol, then trained it on the priest, while with the other hand I gathered Lindo’s reins. That’s all I’d need, having both horses desert me. Dios, I prayed, please give me strength.
De la Vega sneered, looking at the pistol, and said, “You wouldn’t dare. And it’s not fully loaded.” He sat up, and I waggled the weapon at him threateningly. This gave him pause, at least. Then, at top speed, I reached inside my bodice, pulled out the cap that was waiting there, broke open the gun, slipped the cap into the chamber, and snapped it together. How glad I was that I’d practiced so assiduously! Appalled to see my hand at my breast, he’d started frothing and cursing, but when he realized what I was up to, he lunged. I jumped back and shot, startling Lindo. It was a bad shot because I’d been taken by surprise, but there was a grunt, and blood began to spurt from his thigh, followed by a high thin whine of pain and disbelief. We stared, each perhaps waiting for the other to make the first move. Then I moved, fast, leaping towards the saddlebag, scrabbling with the faux book and yanking out the second pistol—still there, gracias à dios! But still loaded with powder? I had no idea. Blessings on Lindo, he’d circled around with me and was standing, ears cocked. The priest was writhing around and bleeding profusely as I pulled the other cap from my bodice and began the speedy ritual again—the second pistol was loaded with powder, thank all the saints and their mothers.
