The Betrayed (Echoes from the Past Book 7)

by Irina Shapiro

  “Would you like one more story?” Quinn asked. Emma clearly wasn’t ready to go to sleep, and Quinn hated to leave her if she was worried about something.

  “Why do you dig up dead people?” Emma asked, her gaze troubled.

  “It’s my job.”

  “I know that, but why do you want to do it? You could have had another job. You could have been a nurse or a teacher, or a fashion model.”

  Quinn chuckled. “I don’t think I could have been a fashion model, but yes, I could have had another job. But I love history, and I want to tell people’s stories.”

  “Will someone dig up my mum someday?” Emma asked, her voice small. She mentioned Jenna less and less, having been only four when her mother died, but occasionally something would jog her memory and she’d start asking questions and wouldn’t stop until she found some sense of inner peace.

  “Is that what you’re worried about?”

  “I don’t want her disturbed. Daddy said she’s at peace, and I want her to stay that way.”

  “Sweetheart, no one is going to disturb your mum’s grave. Daddy and I study people who died hundreds of years ago.”

  “You’re still disturbing their peace,” Emma argued. “Who is this new person you’re studying?”

  “He lived a long, long time ago, in the sixteenth century. He didn’t have a real grave; he was buried in the woods. Perhaps I can discover who he was and then he can be laid to rest properly, with a headstone with his name on it.”

  “Would he know if that happened?” Emma asked.

  Quinn sighed. These were difficult questions, but she and Gabe had decided that they would always try to give Emma the most truthful answer they could.

  “No, he won’t know, but I will.”

  “But you will show him on television without his permission.”

  “Sweetheart, history belongs to everyone. We can’t ask those who came before us for permission, but we can tell their story and hope that people will learn from it, and sometimes, even right a wrong.”

  “Would you want people to tell your story?” Emma asked sullenly.

  “I don’t know,” Quinn answered truthfully. “I never thought about it.”

  “Well, maybe you should,” Emma said, and turned to face the wall. “Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight,” Quinn said, feeling absurdly hurt by Emma’s dismissal. She returned the book to its proper place, turned out the light, and left the room, going to check on Alex before heading to bed herself. Alex was fast asleep, his arms raised as if he were surrendering. It was his favorite pose and it always brought a smile to Quinn’s face.

  “I hope you still like me,” she whispered as she leaned forward to give the baby a tender kiss. Alex smiled in his sleep, making Quinn feel marginally better about her parenting skills.

  “Did Emma ask for one more story?” Gabe asked. He was stretched out on their bed, arms behind his head.

  “No, she wanted to talk about archeology.”

  “Really? Do you think she’s interested?” Gabe asked, pleased by the prospect of Emma following in their footsteps.

  “No, she thinks we are grave robbers who have no respect for the dead and exploit them to gain fame and fortune.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Something like that. She’s worried someone will disturb Jenna’s grave.”

  “I never imagined something like that would even come up.”

  “Neither did I. I guess we have a lot to learn about children.”

  “Were you thinking about graves when you were five?” Gabe asked.

  “No, but then no one I knew had ever died. It wasn’t until my grandmother Ruth died that I came face to face with losing someone I loved. I was older than Emma though. Emma will carry the scars of losing her mother and grandmother for the rest of her days. Perhaps it’d be good for her to visit their graves.”

  “I thought it would be too painful for her to return to Edinburgh so soon after the accident,” Gabe said.

  “Maybe we should ask her.”

  “Yes, I think you’re right. I’ll work it into the conversation one of these days. If I ask her too soon, she’ll think there’s a reason to worry, based on what she said to you.”

  “Never thought I’d be having these conversations with a five-year-old. I wonder if Alex will be as precocious,” Quinn said.

  “Hopefully, he’ll have no reason to think about death and loss until he’s much older. It’s only natural for Emma to ask these questions. She’s trying to understand, that’s all.”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right. It just surprised me is all, being accused of doing something dishonorable.”

  “Perhaps it is,” Gabe replied, his expression thoughtful. “We think our research is benefitting humanity, but we are disturbing the final resting places of those who came before us. Would you want your remains examined on TV?”

  “That’s exactly what Emma asked me,” Quinn said. “And my honest answer is no, I wouldn’t.”

  “So, you’re giving up archeology, then?” Gabe asked with an indulgent grin. “It’s not too late to change careers, you know.”

  “Emma said I could have been a fashion model,” Quinn replied, watching for Gabe’s reaction.

  “And she’s absolutely right. That or a bus driver. You’re the best driver I know.”

  Quinn swatted Gabe with a pillow, but he managed to catch her by the wrists and pulled her on top of him, planting a kiss on her lips as he tossed the pillow aside. “Tell me about the latest victim of your exploitation, Madame Bones.”

  “Colin pronounced him to be completely unremarkable,” Quinn said, rolling off Gabe and snuggling next to him instead.

  Gabe turned onto his side and propped his head on his palm, his brow creased with disapproval. “I beg to differ,” he replied. “Colin is not seeing the whole picture. I think it’s remarkable that not only was this man crucified in a place not known for crucifixions, but he was still on his cross when we found his remains. Have you learned anything about him from the amulet?”

  “His name was Rafael de Silva.”

  “A Spaniard? A survivor of the Armada?” Gabe asked, his eyes shining with curiosity. The defeat of the Spanish Armada was one of his favorite events in British history after the Wars of the Roses, in which his ancestors had fought, first as Lancastrians and later as Yorkists. He’d been extremely reluctant to part with Guy de Rosel’s sword, which had been found buried with his love, Kate, whose remains had been discovered beneath the kitchen tiles of his ancestral home. The sword had been reburied with Kate when her remains were interred next to those of Guy and her husband, Hugh de Rosel, only last month.

  “Tell me what happened, Gabe—the abbreviated version,” Quinn added, seeing the eager look on Gabe’s face that meant he could lecture for an hour if unchecked.

  “Well, we’ve all learned about the defeat of the Spanish Armada at school, but few people know or care what happened to the survivors. Thousands of Spaniards came ashore after their ships smashed on the rocks and sank just off the coast of Ireland. Many died by drowning, but many survived.”

  “They didn’t fare too well, if what I’ve seen is anything to go by.”

  “No, they didn’t. The Spanish mistakenly believed that the Irish, being staunchly Catholic and discontented after years of being trampled into the dirt by Queen Elizabeth’s government, would offer assistance, but they miscalculated badly—not that they ever intended to make landfall in Ireland. The ships were driven off course and sidelined by a series of gales that decimated what was left of the Spanish fleet. About two dozen vessels went down off the West Coast of Ireland. The English Lord Deputy of Ireland, William Fitzwilliam, issued a proclamation stating that harboring or assisting any survivors of the Armada was punishable by death. He openly sanctioned the use of torture to relieve the Spaniards of their possessions and weapons. Thousands were killed, but some survived. There are some who claim they’re ‘Black Irish’ because of the Spanish blood introduce
d into their bloodlines by the Spaniards who settled in Ireland. Pete McGann seems to believe that story and tells it proudly.”

  “Does Pete have Spanish ancestors?” Quinn asked.

  “Not as far as I know. Besides, there’s no evidence to suggest that enough Spaniards survived the massacre to make a marked difference in the population, but don’t tell Pete.”

  Quinn chuckled. “I won’t, but one could reasonably argue that a surviving Spaniard might have taken his wife’s name in order to blend in and spare their future children from being ostracized and persecuted.”

  “Yes, that’s one theory. At that stage, they weren’t overly concerned with the preservation of their ancestral lines, only with survival. So, what happened to Rafael de Silva?”

  “Rafael survived the sinking of the El Gran Grin and washed up on the beach in Connacht. As many as eight hundred men washed up on that same beach, according to my research. Many were already dead, but the ones who survived were attacked by the locals—stripped, robbed, and killed, their bodies left for the animals and the crows. Several hundred more washed up a short distance away. Can you imagine the scene?” Quinn asked, shuddering at the memory of what she’d seen. “It must have been mind-blowing to see all these people suddenly spit out by the sea. Anyway, de Silva crawled into the rushes and hid, and was eventually joined by a captain of one of the other vessels. They managed to get away from the beach under cover of the night and came across two other soldiers later that day.”

  “Do you still believe de Silva was Muslim?” Gabe asked.

  “Yes, I do. He swallowed the Hand of Fatima for fear of it being taken off him. It was given to him by his fiancée just before he left for La Coruña, from where the Armada set sail.”

  “Interesting choice of hiding place,” Gabe said with a chuckle.

  “The soldiers were being stripped naked, so there was nowhere else he could have hidden it. Carrying the amulet on him was an act of incredible bravery to begin with.”

  “Or an act of unspeakable stupidity, given what would have happened to him had he been discovered with it.”

  “Probably a little of both. Had it been found, he would have been put to death immediately, and it wouldn’t have been a quick and painless death. He would have been made an example of and probably tortured for information about other Muslims in the ranks.”

  “Do you think there were others?” Gabe asked.

  “Don’t you?”

  “Given the sheer volume of soldiers and crew that sailed with the Armada and the number of ancient families in Spain who were of Moorish descent, I think it very likely. So, what happened to him?” Gabe prompted.

  “I don’t know yet, but I mean to find out. I’ve made plans to see Jo tomorrow. I offered to show her the charm.”

  “Is that wise?” Gabe asked carefully.

  “She didn’t say she didn’t want to see it.”

  “I think Jo’s afraid to disappoint you, but it’s clear she has no desire to embrace her gift. Until a short while ago, you’d have done anything to lose your ability to see into the past. Don’t push her, love.”

  Quinn nodded. “You’re right, as usual. I’m just so excited to have someone I can share this with. I know, I need to tread carefully. Jo’s been different since we returned from Germany.”

  “She’s at home now and feeling less vulnerable. She needs time to establish relationships with all these new people in her life, and she needs to do it on her own terms.”

  “Gabe?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I really hate it when you’re right,” Quinn said, grinning at him.

  “You should be used to it by now.”

  Quinn grabbed the pillow Gabe had tossed aside earlier and smacked him over the head, giggling madly. He grabbed it from her hands, tossed it aside once again, and deftly flipped Quinn onto her back, pinning her beneath him. “You know what else I’m right about?” he asked, his voice low and silky.

  “No. What?”

  “How much you’re going to enjoy what comes next.”

  Chapter 8

  September 1588

  Connaught, Ireland

  The wind picked up during the course of the evening, whispering ominously in the trees above his head as Rafael tried in vain to get to sleep. His body was pressed to Juan’s. Paco was nestled between Juan and the captain. It had been decided that since Rafael and the captain still had their shirts and doublets, they’d provide whatever warmth they could to the men in the middle. Juan’s bare chest was covered in gooseflesh and his bare feet were cold as ice against Rafael’s shins.

  Paco snored softly, but the captain’s breathing was ragged, his face flushed with fever. He’d put on a brave face during the day, but the hours spent floating in the icy waters of the North Atlantic had taken their toll. Rafael’s father would have prescribed bed rest, hot broth, and an infusion of willow bark to relieve the fever, but other than resting on cold, hard ground, there was nothing Rafael could suggest that would help the man. He hoped the captain was strong enough to fight off the illness on his own.

  “Why aren’t you sleeping?” Juan asked as he pressed himself even closer to Rafael.

  “I can’t.”

  “Neither can I. Every time I fall asleep, I see Pilar’s face.”

  “It’s only natural for you to think of your wife,” Rafael replied. Especially when you’re not sure if you’ll ever see her again.

  “Pilar is near her time,” Juan replied. “She might have had the baby already, for all I know. It breaks my heart to think that I will never see my child.”

  “Don’t lose hope, Juan. We’re not dead yet.”

  “No, we’re not, but unless we find food and shelter soon, we will be. It’s only September, and it’s already so cold.”

  Rafael nodded. It grew bitterly cold once the sun went down. September in Spain was a golden month, the tail end of summer that lasted well into October. The blistering heat of July and August gave way to pleasant, sunny days and cool, fragrant evenings. September in Ireland seemed to herald the beginning of winter.

  “If I die here, Pilar will never know what became of me. She won’t be able to remarry,” Juan whispered.

  “Do you want her to?” Rafael asked, surprised by the direction of Juan’s thoughts.

  “I don’t want her to spend what’s left of her youth waiting for a husband who won’t come home. I want her to be happy, and I want my child to have a father.”

  “I never imagined that a man would want his wife to remarry. Surely you’d want her to remain loyal to you.”

  “What good would that do me if I’m dead? No, I want my Pilar to know love, both emotional and physical.”

  “Juan, how did you know what to do on your wedding night?” Rafael asked. It was an embarrassing question, but a dark forest seemed as good a place as any to ask.

  “Pilar wasn’t my first.”

  “But lying with a woman who’s not your wife is a sin,” Rafael replied, shocked by Juan’s unflinching honesty.

  “Dying a virgin is a sin, if you ask me,” Juan replied.

  “Was it different with Pilar?”

  “Because she’s my wife?” Juan thought about it for a moment. “Yes, it was different. It wasn’t only about me. I wanted to give her pleasure.”

  Rafael raised himself on one elbow and looked down at Juan. “Women derive pleasure from their marital obligations?”

  “You really are naïve, aren’t you, Rafael? Of course, they do, if you teach them right. If you’re gentle and patient, they learn to like it. They open up like a flower,” Juan explained.

  “I never would have thought.”

  “How old are you, anyway?” Juan demanded.

  “I’m eighteen.”

  “You don’t know what you’re missing, my man.”

  “What am I missing?” Rafael asked.

  “An older brother. My brother took me to a brothel when I was fourteen. I was afraid I wouldn’t know what to do, so he had a woman
in front of me. I watched and learned, so when it was my turn, I didn’t disgrace myself too badly.”

  “Did your brother watch?” Rafael asked, curious about this unheard-of intimacy between brothers. Rafael had never so much as taken a piss in front of Ramόn.

  “Yes. I didn’t mind. It made me feel like a man. Afterward, my brother got us a bottle of Madeira and we got drunk.”

  “What happened after that?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Did you two go back to the brothel?”

  “We went about once a month. That’s all my brother could afford in those days. We always shared a whore. It was cheaper than getting two women.”

  “What if your priest found out?” Rafael asked. He still couldn’t wrap his mind around such debauchery.

  “Rafael, priests are men. They try to suppress their urges, but don’t always succeed.”

  “Are you saying some priests have carnal relations with women?”

  “I’m saying that men are men. My uncle is a priest,” Juan added. “He kept a mistress for years. She bore him two daughters.”

  “Was the woman not disgraced and whipped through the streets?”

  “No, you idiot. My uncle found her a husband as soon as she got with child the first time. The man received a handsome incentive, if you know what I mean, and my uncle continued to see her until he grew tired of her.”

  “What would happen if he was discovered?” Rafael asked.

  “He’d probably just get a slap on the wrist. What do you think would happen? Did you think the bishop would have him defrocked? Or castrated?” Juan chuckled softly.

  “I’ll castrate you if you don’t shut up,” the captain growled. “Have some respect for your wife, González, and stop talking about whores.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Juan replied, making a face at Rafael.

  “Go to sleep, you two. We move out tomorrow.”

  “Move out to where, sir?” Juan asked.

  “Anywhere. We can’t stay here,” the captain replied.

  The captain turned his back to them and pretended to sleep, but Rafael could tell by his breathing that he was awake. As the only officer among them, he felt responsible for the men, but he was probably just as scared and confused as the rest of them, as well as being ill.