Quinn shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. Neither one is talking, but given Rhys’s testy mood, I’d say not great.”
“Undoubtedly, Jo is feeling vulnerable right now, and probably feels beholden to Rhys for risking his life to find her in Kabul. That’s not a promising start to any relationship, since they are not on equal footing. A lot has happened in her life in the past few months. Has she expressed a desire to return to work?”
“She’s still recovering from the neurosurgery. Her doctor advised her not to fly as the difference in air pressure might cause a brain bleed. I hope she won’t go off on some dangerous assignment as soon as she gets the all clear,” Quinn fretted.
“Quinn, Jo is a grown woman. I know you’re worried about her, but your sudden involvement might make her feel suffocated.”
“I missed out on thirty-one years with her, and I’m trying to cram three decades into a couple of weeks, but I know that our friendship will take time to develop. We’re virtual strangers, and I don’t want to do anything to endanger this fragile new relationship. Don’t you sometimes wish people came with instructions?”
“I sure do. Had you come with instructions, we might have got together a lot sooner, and you wouldn’t have wasted eight years on that unspeakable wank—”
“Is there anything else I can get you?” the server asked, interrupting Gabe’s little tirade.
“No, I think we’re done here,” Quinn replied, giving Gabe a sharp look. She had no desire to talk about Luke. He was the past and Gabe was the future. End of story.
Gabe paid the bill while Quinn extracted Alex from the highchair and gathered her belongings. “It’s naptime for you, young man,” she said, kissing his soft, round cheek. “Maybe Daddy will take you for a walk while Mummy puts in some quality time with the Hand of Fatima,” she said meaningfully, smiling beguilingly at Gabe.
“Done. I can’t wait to find out what you saw.”
Chapter 2
September 1588
Coast of Ireland
As he came to, he first became aware of the jagged stones digging into his cheek, followed by the thunder of crashing waves. The sea was behind him, the surf rushing toward him and licking his boots and thighs before retreating again. Somewhere above, a seagull cried, and a brisk wind ruffled his salt-stiffened hair. His eyes were caked with grit, and he was unbearably cold. He tried to move but couldn’t find the strength to do much more than lift his head. A moan escaped his lips and he gave up and lay his head back down, too weak to care about the sharp stones. His lips were dry and cracked, and he was terribly thirsty. He shivered violently in his wet clothes.
After a time, fragments of thought that had been floating through his muddled brain began to form coherent memories, until the terror of the shipwreck returned to his consciousness, slowly and painfully. He flexed his fingers and wrapped his hand around a bunch of pebbles. He squeezed harder. It hurt, but he was grateful to feel pain. He was alive. The sea roared again, but as the noise subsided, sounds of a different nature met his ears. He heard anguished moans and the thudding of blows, the cries of seagulls and screams of terrified men.
Rafael forced his eyes open but couldn’t see a thing as tears stung his eyes and ran down his cheeks, cleansing the delicate orbs that had been irritated by dried grit and saltwater. Everything appeared blurred and distorted, but once his vision cleared, he was finally able to comprehend what he was looking at and he felt a renewed surge of panic. The sight that greeted him was like a punch to the gut. The beach was littered with men. There were hundreds of them. Some lay perfectly still as the waves crashed over them, while others struggled to get to their feet and reach dry land. Dozens of people, locals by the look of them, poured onto the beach to join the ones that were already there, kicking and pummeling Rafael’s countrymen, their eyes wild with hatred, their teeth bared. The men brandished thick wooden cudgels and knives, which they used on whoever was closest to them. Howls of pain and shock filled the desolate beach as the locals beat the survivors mercilessly or killed them outright. Blood and brain matter splattered the rocks as skulls were smashed like ripe melons. The locals who were unarmed fell on the dead and injured and tore off their clothes and boots, stuffing their pockets with whatever valuables they could get their hands on. Rafael’s training superseded his fear. Luckily for him, he’d washed up further down the beach, so the mob was still some way off. He had to get away before they reached him. Once they did, there’d be no mercy and no chance of escape.
Rafael’s limbs quivered like jelly, but he forced himself to crawl away from the shoreline. The pebbles cut into his hands and hurt his knees, but he kept going, his eyes fixed on the wide strip of rushes in the distance. He was sure the men would search the surrounding area once their blood cooled. On the beach, he was completely exposed, but hiding in the rushes would give him a little extra time to get his bearings. He gasped for breath as he crawled, ignoring the pain and the nausea that threatened to overtake him. Eventually, he reached the cover of the tall grass and tried to crawl deeper into the growth, looking for a hollow or a ditch where he could lie low.
Pausing to catch his breath, Rafael turned to glance at the beach. The carnage continued unabated. Several of his countrymen had managed to get to their feet and were trying to fight off their attackers, but they were no match for angry, armed men, who cut through them with ease. Rafael continued to crawl until he found an indentation in the ground. It wasn’t much, but hopefully it would hide him. He lay face-down and pulled the tall grass down to cover him, hoping no one would be able to spot him from a distance. There were enough shipwrecked soldiers on the beach to keep the locals occupied for some time. Rafael laid his head on the ground and covered his ears to block out the desperate screams that tore at his soul.
Eventually, all became quiet and still. Having slaughtered the survivors, the locals departed, leaving the beach strewn with naked and mutilated corpses. It was possible that someone had survived the massacre, but Rafael was in no shape to help anyone. He shivered in his wet clothes, his teeth chattering with cold. He was thirsty and hungry, but most of all, he was terrified. What was he to do now? Even if he made it through the night, who’d help him? Where was he to go?
He reached into the tiny pocket sewn into the inside of his doublet and extracted the hamsa. The hand-shaped charm was the size of a grape, the gold thin and filigreed. A small, round opal was set into the palm of the hand, almost like a single eye, watching over its owner. The amulet wouldn’t fetch much, if sold, but to Rafael it was priceless. He pressed the little hand to his lips and kissed it reverently.
“Dear God, if you can hear me, please help me,” he prayed. “I’m at your mercy, now and always.”
Rafael stared at the charm in his hand. The locals had filled their pockets with Spanish gold, robbing the corpses littering the beach. They’d taken crosses, rosaries, rings, and even buckles and buttons. They were sure to take his hamsa if he were discovered. Rafael considered his options for a moment. If he died, it wouldn’t matter, but if he survived, he’d do anything to hold on to it. Mira had given it to him just before he left for La Coruña. It had been a betrothal gift from her mother, but Mira had pressed it into his hand, her eyes meeting his full on for the first time since they’d met.
“I can’t take it, Mira,” Rafael had told her. He had been touched by her generous gesture but felt awkward about accepting the gift.
“You can. Please, I want you to have it. You can return it to me on our wedding day, Rafael, and I will be happy in the knowledge that it kept you safe.”
“Thank you,” Rafael had said, wondering if maybe, in time, he would learn to love this girl. He hadn’t been in favor of the match, hadn’t been ready to commit himself to a girl he’d met only twice before, but his father made all the arrangements and the betrothal took place, the two young people studying each other shyly as they stood side by side. Mira was pretty, but at sixteen she was still a child, raised behind the protective walls of her f
amily’s home. There were reasons why señor Cortés kept Mira and his two younger daughters in near isolation, and they all knew what those reasons were.
Given the perils of day-to-day life in Toledo, it was easier to have sons, but boys came with their own challenges, as señor de Silva was fond of reminding his sons. It was his father who’d decided that Rafael would join the army.
“You’ll be safe in the army, Rafi,” his father had said. “You’ll be hiding in plain sight. I only wish your brother could join up as well, but he’s not strong enough for life in the military. His heart can’t take the strain. I’ve spoken to señor Cortés. Ramόn will be apprenticed to him until he can become a master craftsman. There’s always a demand for goldsmiths.”
“Father, I don’t want to join the army,” Rafael had argued. “I want to be a physician, like you.”
“Rafi, please trust me in this,” señor de Silva had replied. “It is not safe for you to study medicine. You know the reasons, but you still don’t understand the danger. Physicians invite undue scrutiny, and scrutiny often leads to an investigation, interrogation, and torture. There are those who think healers are no better than witches or sorcerers. The Church never sleeps, mi hijo. It has eyes and ears everywhere. We mustn’t attract undue attention. We must blend in. By joining the army, you show the authorities and the priests that you are a loyal and patriotic Spaniard, a young man beyond reproach.”
“Father, why don’t we leave Spain?” Rafael had asked, not for the first time. “Surely there are places where we can be free to be ourselves and worship openly. We can live our lives as we choose, without constant fear of discovery.”
“Rafi, our family has been in Toledo for centuries. We are as Spanish as the people who’d condemn us. I will not give in to their bullying. I will not leave my home, and neither will you. This will pass, as all things pass. We must have faith. God is great. He will protect us.”
As he has protected all the countless people who were taken from their homes, imprisoned, tortured, and sentenced to die on the flimsiest of evidence? Rafael thought angrily. The fire of the Inquisition burns bright, fed by the Church, who uses men like you for fuel, men who refuse to see reason and condemn their families to lives lived in constant terror.
But, in the end, Rafael couldn’t refuse his father. He’d been brought up to respect and honor his parents, and given their situation, his father’s plan was sound. A life in the army would probably be more rewarding than endless days hunched over a workbench, fashioning bits of gold into charms and rings by the light of a candle, his daily existence reduced to long hours at the workshop followed by an evening at his home, just down the street from the jewelry shop of señor Cortés.
“How I envy you, Rafi,” Ramόn had said. His eyes had filled with tears when señor de Silva informed his youngest son that Rafael would be leaving them in a fortnight, but their father offered no words of comfort. He wasn’t a man given to displays of emotion or physical affection. “What I wouldn’t give to go with you. Just think of it; you’ll get to see the world. You’ll sail the high seas. You’ll experience life.”
“Or death,” Rafael had reminded his brother. “I’m not going on a sightseeing expedition, Ramόn. I’m going to fight, to bring war to people who only want to live in peace and worship as they see fit.”
“If all goes well, you’ll never see battle. The British will cower at the sight of the great and mighty Armada and lay down their arms. Some might even welcome the invasion. Surely, they’d like to overthrow their heretic queen who rules without a husband and has neglected to produce an heir, a woman’s only God-sanctioned duty. You’ll come back full of wonderful stories, a brave soldier who’s ready to claim his bride.”
Rafael had shaken his head. No one understood, not even his brother, with whom he’d been close all his life. Ramόn had been a sickly child who grew into a sickly young man. The slightest of exertions caused heart palpitations, and he turned pale as flour and broke out in a cold sweat whenever he didn’t have enough to eat, his hands shaking like leaves until the food finally fed his blood and the tremors subsided. Ramόn envied Rafael his freedom, his exciting future, and in his bitterness quoted the rhetoric of the zealots, justifying the attack on England and its brave and independent queen. Ramόn would have traded places with Rafael in a heartbeat, but señor de Silva would never allow it, with good reason.
“Yes, you’re right,” Rafael had agreed, eager to put an end to the conversation. “I will go for a nice cruise to England, see the sights, and then come back and marry Mira.”
“You lucky dog,” Ramόn had said, elbowing him in the ribs. “She’s beautiful.”
“Father will find you a beautiful bride as well. Mira’s sisters are lovely, and then there are the Ramos girls. They’ll be ready to be betrothed in a year or two.”
Ramόn had smiled happily. There were few eligible young men in their community, so Ramόn would have no shortage of suitable brides to choose from. Rafael had clapped Ramόn on the shoulder. “Look after Father while I’m gone. He’ll need you more than ever.”
“I’ll look after your bride too,” Ramόn had replied cheekily. “Just to make sure she doesn’t get up to no good.”
“Thanks, little brother,” Rafael had replied. “With you here, I’ll have one less thing to worry about.”
Rafael buried his face in his arms as tears of fear and loneliness slid down his cheeks. He missed his father and brother desperately, but the one person he really longed for was his mother, who’d left them less than a year ago after a prolonged illness. He’d always been closer to his mother. Lucía de Silva had been beautiful and intelligent, but also warm and understanding, unlike her husband, who valued only his own point of view. “Watch over me, mamá,” Rafael whispered into the wind that ruffled his hair like a mother’s hand.
He burrowed deeper into the hollow that cradled him but provided little warmth. His shivering kept him awake, his thoughts swirling like fog. He hoped his father would be informed of his fate, should he die on this foreign shore, but he didn’t think his family would ever learn the truth. His Most Catholic Majesty, Phillip II, had proclaimed the Spanish Navy to be invincible and sworn that England didn’t stand a chance against its might. Would the king ever admit to his subjects that ‘The Great and Most Fortunate Navy of Spain’ had been waylaid by the English, scattered to the four winds, and blown to bits by gales the likes of which no Spaniard had ever seen?
Trembling violently in his wet clothes, Rafael wondered how people lived in this hostile climate. The sky was the color of a nasty bruise, the thick clouds hanging so low one could almost touch them. It was cold, damp, and dreary. The shoreline was rocky and narrow, not like the glorious, sun-drenched beaches of Spain, where the sand was soft and golden beneath one’s bare feet, the palm trees swayed lazily, and strains of guitar music carried on the light breeze from nearby squares. There were times when he hated Spain and those who ruled it, but at this moment, he would have given anything to see its shores again.
Memories of home awakened hunger. Rafael wasn’t sure what day it was, but he couldn’t recall the last time he’d had a proper meal. Supplies had been running low, so all the soldiers and crew had been put on half-rations, which hadn’t been nearly enough to satisfy the hungry men. To make matters worse, the soldiers had sat around and reminisced about their favorite dishes, describing the glories of suckling pig until their mouths watered, and large pans of paella, the rice flavored with saffron and thick with chorizo, shrimp, chicken, and vegetables. Doña Lucía had never made suckling pig, nor did she add chorizo to her paella, since pork was forbidden, but there were other dishes she’d made that were just as delicious. Rafael had tried not to listen to the food talk and had gone up on deck, where the cold drizzle that seemed to fall nearly every day had distracted him from persistent hunger, but the cold and wet weren’t helping him now.
His stomach growled and his mouth was dry with thirst. He’d settle for a cup of hot broth an
d a piece of bread, but there wasn’t so much as a mouthful of fresh water to be had in his hiding spot. He licked his lips to moisten them and tasted salt. Taking one last look at the golden charm in his hand, Rafael pushed it into his mouth, swallowing it. It scratched his throat as it went down, but he didn’t care. He might not live long enough for his throat to heal, but if he did, he’d keep the amulet safe from the enemy in the depths of his body.
Chapter 3
It was only once the leaden sky began to darken that Rafael felt safe enough to raise his head and look around. Crows and wild dogs had congregated on the beach and were feasting on the remains of his countrymen. Gut-churning sounds drifted toward him as they ripped flesh and crunched on bones, their teeth and beaks covered in gore. Rafael turned away and stared out over the water, a mesmerizing shade of violet in the lingering twilight. The waves no longer crashed onto the beach, but rolled in gently, foaming as they rushed over the pebbles, and then retreated, only to repeat the process again and again. The storm that had sunk Rafael’s ship and many others had passed, leaving behind a vast and empty horizon, devoid of anything but lavender clouds and twinkling stars.
Rafael peered into the shadows. He thought he saw something bobbing on the water but couldn’t be sure. It might have been a trick of the light, or a piece of flotsam. Maybe even a bit of wood from one of the warships that had been tossed on the monstrous waves like children’s toys and swallowed whole with hundreds of men still aboard. The object drifted closer, taking on a more definite shape in the gathering darkness. A man clung to a hunk of wood, his cheek resting on one arm, his eyes closed. He wasn’t moving. Rafael’s initial instinct was to leave his sanctuary and offer help, but he remained where he was. He wouldn’t have the strength to outrun the dogs if they caught his scent, and he was terrified of being mauled to death. Instead, Rafael rested his head on his arms and tried to sleep. After hours of terror and heightened awareness of his surroundings, he was exhausted. He drifted into an uneasy sleep, grateful to escape reality for even a short time.
The Betrayed (Echoes from the Past Book 7) Page 2
