The Betrayed (Echoes from the Past Book 7)

by Irina Shapiro

  “I heard shots. Yer men are dead,” Mary replied woodenly. Her earlier panic seemed to have been replaced by shock.

  “Quick, go to them,” Captain de Cuéllar ordered the men standing closest to him. “They might still be alive.”

  Four men made their way to the battlements, two for each fallen man. They crouched down once they reached the top to avoid being shot, but there was an eerie silence, made all the more frightening by the nearly two thousand English soldiers just beyond the walls of the castle. The rest of the Spaniards remained in the bailey, watching their friends and waiting for news of the wounded. It wasn’t long until the men returned, carrying the two corpses.

  “They’ve been shot in the head,” José said once they laid the men on the ground before the captain. “English shooters must have hidden in the trees and taken them out.”

  The men bowed their heads and crossed themselves. “God rest their souls,” Captain de Cuéllar said quietly before turning to face the remaining men. “This is a warning that they’ll kill anyone patrolling the battlements. There are several other vantage points we can use that should be out of range of their muskets, even if they come close to the walls. We must keep a lookout.”

  “Ho, Spaniards! We have a message for you. Come and see,” an English solider hailed them in heavily accented Spanish.

  The men turned toward the captain, who looked angry and defiant. The Irish fighters stood off to the side, watching, their swords now sheathed, since they were in no immediate danger.

  “Rafael, Alfonso, Julio, and José. Come with me. Keep your heads down.”

  “Sí, Capitán,” the men replied in unison.

  They ascended the battlements and crouched down, peering between the crenellations. The English were gathered at the edge of the wood, well out of musket range, watching the castle with gleeful anticipation. Captain de Cuéllar let out an oath as two Spaniards, so dirty and ragged they barely looked like soldiers of Spain, were led into a clearing that was visible from the castle walls. The men could barely walk. They were emaciated from months of near starvation and had been cruelly beaten. Their faces were bruised beyond recognition and rusty stains marred what was left of their shirts and breeches. Their feet were bare, and their hands were tied behind their backs.

  An officer stepped forward and looked toward the castle. Even from a distance, his smug expression was hard to miss.

  “My name is Colonel Rigby,” he announced in ringing tones, in English this time. “I am in command of Her Majesty’s troops, which will remain encamped here until each and every one of you has been captured. Should you choose to surrender, you will be offered reasonable terms. Should you choose to persist with this ridiculous standoff, you will all be executed as soon as you’re taken. And just to show you how serious I am, I’ll start with these two.”

  Rigby turned toward the two men, who were restrained by English soldiers, and gave the order. The men were dragged toward a full-bellied oak and forced to watch as two lengths of rope were slung over a sturdy branch. Neither man bothered to struggle as they were positioned directly beneath the branch. They were either too weak or had no hope of a reprieve at this late stage. Instead, they turned their faces in the direction of the castle, their gazes fixed on their countrymen as the nooses were draped around their necks, their lips moving in silent prayer.

  “Estamos con vosotros, hermanos,” Captain de Cuéllar shouted. We’re all with you, brothers.

  Rafael hoped the captain’s words brought the condemned men some comfort, but he doubted it. A moment later, the prisoners were hoisted up. Their legs kicked at the empty air, their bare feet desperately trying to find purchase as they gasped for breath. The men in the castle watched in helpless horror as the two prisoners continued to struggle, slowly suffocating. The English made sure their necks weren’t broken when they were strung up, to prolong their suffering. It was cruel but effective. The Spanish soldiers crossed themselves and bowed their heads as a sign of respect once the two prisoners finally went limp, their struggle over.

  “Surrender now, and you will not meet the same fate,” Colonel Rigby shouted. “You will be taken prisoner and treated with respect.”

  “Why don’t I believe him?” José asked sarcastically. “There are enough trees here for each and every one of us.”

  “We will not surrender,” the captain vowed once they returned to the other men. “Our only hope of survival lies in holding our defenses. For all their bluster, they can’t get to us without breaching the castle walls.”

  The men nodded, but no one spoke. It wasn’t hard to guess what they were thinking. If the English chose to scale the walls, little could be done to stop them. Several dozen men could hardly hold off two thousand, and if the Irish decided to bargain for their freedom, the surest way to a pardon lay in handing over the Spaniards, for whom they harbored no fond feelings.

  “What’s the plan, Captain?” Julio Fernández asked, his earlier anger forgotten.

  “The plan is to wait and see what they’ll do. We must keep watch around the clock. Eight men, four vantage points, two-hour shifts.”

  “Yes, sir,” the men replied.

  “You two, take the north corner,” the captain said to Rafael and Alfonso.

  “Let’s go,” Rafael said.

  “We’ll be staring at the corpses of those men the entire time,” Alfonso replied as he followed Rafael toward the watch tower. He looked like a turtle with his shoulders hunched to protect his head.

  “Not much we can do about that. Think of it as a reminder of what will happen if we fail.”

  Alfonso didn’t reply. They both knew their chances of ever leaving the castle were almost nonexistent. The English meant to either take them prisoner or execute them. Rafael wasn’t sure which option he preferred. At least the poor men who were now swinging in the breeze had been spared years of imprisonment and suffering. They would have never been released or had any earthly chance of getting home. At least they were now at peace.

  Alfonso and Rafael took up their watch. They couldn’t stand upright for fear of being shot, so they crouched behind the truncated parapet, watching the English. All they could do was alert the others if the English were on the move, since they had no muskets. The minutes ticked by slowly, the men stiff and uncomfortable in their unnatural position. The English soldiers returned to their camp and went about the business of preparing supper. There was no sense of urgency one would associate with an imminent attack, but Rafael couldn’t relax. His gaze kept straying to the two hanged men, whose faces seemed to be turned toward the castle despite the stiff breeze, as if in a final reproach.

  “I would give anything to be at home right now,” Alfonso said wistfully. “I hate this place, and I hate the army. If I ever make it out of here alive, I’ll gladly join the priesthood, as my father wished. At least I’ll be safe and have plenty to eat.”

  “And the women?” Rafael asked, grateful for the distraction. “I thought you couldn’t give up the women.”

  Alfonso shrugged miserably. “Face it, Rafi, I’m not exactly a catch. The only women I could get would be the ones I paid for, and I don’t want those. I want someone to love me,” he said miserably. “I want to know what it’s like to be loved.”

  “I love you,” Rafael said, blowing Alfonso a theatrical kiss. Alfonso grinned and elbowed Rafael in the ribs playfully, nearly causing him to fall over.

  “Thanks, Rafi. The only thing that makes this more bearable is knowing that I won’t die friendless.”

  “Amen to that, mi amigo.”

  They smiled sadly at each other and turned their attention back to the English soldiers and the heart-wrenching sight of their comrades.

  Chapter 47

  May 2015

  London, England

  Rhys felt a twinge of nervousness as he waited for Katya to open the door. She’d invited him to dinner, but he wasn’t sure if this was meant to be a date or just a meal between friends. He’d brought an expensive bo
ttle of red wine but refrained from baking anything to take along as he normally did when visiting friends. He had no wish to make Katya uncomfortable. He’d let her take the lead.

  Katya smiled warmly when she opened the door. She kissed his cheek and invited him into her flat, which was spacious and ultra-modern in its decor. Above the white leather sofa hung an oversized painting, the splashes of color and unique shapes instantly recognizable to anyone who considered himself a connoisseur of art. Rhys stepped closer and examined the painting, unable to believe his eyes.

  “Is that a Kandinsky?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Is it an original?”

  “Yes,” Katya replied with a smile. “My grandfather knew Wassily well. He gave this painting to my grandfather as a gift when he married my grandmother.”

  “It’s stunning,” Rhys said.

  “Thank you.”

  “Oh, this is for you.” Rhys handed her the gift-wrapped wine bottle. “I hope you like red.”

  “I do. And I hope you like vodka.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I have a surprise for you,” Katya said, grinning like an excited little girl. “You’ve asked me so many questions about the cuisine of Imperial Russia and what the Kalinins would have eaten before the revolution left them homeless and penniless that I decided it would be a lot more fun to just show you. Come.” She took him by the hand and led him into the dining room. The table was set for two and an asymmetrical candelabra made of cut crystal stood in pride of place on the table, the glow of the candles the only light in the room. Katya pointed toward the dishes on the table dramatically.

  “You will begin your culinary journey into Russia with blini with sour cream and beluga caviar, smoked sturgeon, and duck liver mousse on toast points. For the main course, we have fillet of beef in mushroom gravy with garlic roasted potatoes garnished with dill.”

  “And what is blin—whatever you said?” Rhys asked, ready to eat whatever Katya chose to serve him.

  “It’s a type of crepe.”

  “Sounds delicious. And what do we have for dessert?”

  “You will just have to wait and see, but I promise you’re going to love it.”

  “I love it already. Thank you, Katya. This is one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me. I hope you will allow me an opportunity to repay in kind.”

  Katya’s blue eyes grew serious as she looked up at Rhys, her lips set in a pout. “I didn’t do this so you could repay me. I did it because I wanted to.”

  Rhys took Katya’s hand and lifted it to his lips, much as Count Alexei Petrov would have done in prerevolutionary days. He bowed over Katya’s hand and kissed it lightly, making her smile.

  “Then I accept your generous gesture and apologize if I gave offense.”

  “You didn’t. Shall we begin?”

  Rhys took a seat and Katya poured them both shots of ice-cold vodka.

  “Russian nobility consumed plenty of wine, but there’s nothing more Russian than a shot of vodka. Na zdorovye,” she said and raised her glass in a toast.

  “Salute.”

  Rhys tossed back the shot and felt the pleasant heat settle in his stomach. He took a bite of the blini, savoring the barely perceptible sweetness of the crepe, offset by the creaminess of the sour cream and the delicate saltiness of the caviar.

  “What do you think?” Katya asked, her gaze eager.

  “It’s wonderful.”

  “I’m glad you like it because I serve it only to very special people,” Katya said with a merry laugh. “I only buy it for very special occasions.”

  “I’m honored,” Rhys replied, the warmth in his belly no longer just from the vodka.

  “Many people think that Russian cuisine is heavy and crudely prepared, and that’s true of the peasant dishes, but that could be said about the cuisine of the common people of any region. I love all types of food, but some Russian delicacies are still at the top of my list.”

  “They’re quickly moving up my list as well,” Rhys replied as he took a bite of the smoked sturgeon.

  Katya poured him another shot. “Drink up, Mr. Morgan. I want you well lubricated.” Rhys nearly choked on his fish, but quickly realized Katya was just joking. “Sorry. Crude Russian humor,” she said, grinning.

  Rhys bit back a very inappropriate reply and drank the shot instead. He felt pleasantly relaxed and utterly at ease. He gazed at Katya, who was dressed in a silk top the color of bluebells, her wavy blond hair framing her face, and candlelight reflected in her wide blue eyes. He hadn’t realized how stunningly beautiful she was, or how refreshingly different from the women he normally came across.

  “May I ask you a personal question, Rhys?” Katya asked after she served the main course.

  “How personal?”

  “Not personal enough to make you blush.”

  “Go on, then.”

  “Why have you never married?” Katya asked.

  Rhys sat back and studied her across the table. It was a fairly personal question, one he’d asked himself only recently. He wanted to give her an honest answer, but not one that bared his soul. He wasn’t ready for that.

  “My brother, Owain, got married when I was twenty-two,” Rhys said, recalling that day with remarkable clarity. “He was so happy. He said it was the best day of his life. I asked him how he knew Maren was the one and he said, ‘Because I can’t imagine my life without her in it.’”

  “And you’ve never met a woman who made you feel that way,” Katya said, watching him.

  “No, I haven’t. I’ve met plenty of lovely women, had relationships with several of them, but I never felt that type of certainty, or that deep of a love.”

  “Have you never had your heart broken?”

  “There was a girl I fancied myself in love with back in Wales. I was seventeen. I thought she was my soulmate, but sadly, she didn’t feel the same. I got over her quickly enough once I started uni.”

  “And since then?”

  Rhys shook his head. He didn’t want to talk about Hayley or the baby he’d lost. He mourned the child every day, but he rarely thought about Hayley. In retrospect, he realized that he’d never truly loved her.

  “And what about you?” Rhys asked, turning the tables on Katya. “Why are you not married?”

  “I was,” Katya admitted. “I was very young when I married him, and like many inexperienced women, I mistook sexual attraction for love.”

  “Sexual attraction is not a bad starting point,” Rhys pointed out. “It often leads to something deeper.”

  “It didn’t with me. After several years of marriage, I realized that the only way I could remain married to Vadim was if I learned to accept a lesser version of myself. He didn’t want a partner; he wanted a good Russian wifey who’d make his needs her only priority.”

  “So you left him?” Rhys asked.

  “Actually, he left me. He found a woman who made him the center of her universe. He’s married to her now,” Katya said without any rancor. “I wish them well. They have gorgeous twin girls.”

  “I love children,” Rhys said, feeling the familiar pang of longing when the topic of kids came up. He dreamed of being a dad and hoped he hadn’t missed his chance.

  “Me too. That’s the only thing I regret, not having a baby, but then I’d be tied to Vadim for the rest of my days, and that would make life indescribably difficult, given his obstinate nature. I would still like to have a child, but sadly, time is not on my side.”

  “Nor on mine,” Rhys agreed.

  “All right, enough bellyaching,” Katya said with a grin. “I have heard of your legendary baking skills, so choosing a dessert for tonight was a matter of great importance.”

  “What did you settle on?” Rhys asked. At this point, he’d eat stale buns from Tesco just to make Katya happy.

  “The pastry I selected is not strictly Russian, but it’s one most Russians love. I think you’ll enjoy it, especially with Russian-style tea.”

>   “Bring it on,” Rhys said, grinning with anticipation. “Do you have a samovar?”

  “No. I have a tea kettle, but it’s electric, if that makes it any more impressive,” Katya replied.

  “Let me help you clear the table,” Rhys said, but Katya waved away his offer of help.

  “You are my guest, and you will do nothing of the sort. Sit back, relax, have another shot of vodka, and I will be right back with our pudding, as you Brits like to say.”

  Rhys poured himself another shot. He didn’t normally drink vodka, but the ice-cold spirit slid easily down his throat, settling in his stomach like a glowing orb of contentment. Katya returned to the dining room, carrying a platter of pastries.

  “Oh my God!” Rhys exclaimed when he tasted the first forkful of Napoleon. The flaky pastry saturated with the lightest custard cream was heavenly. “This is extraordinary. Did you make it yourself?”

  “No, I purchased it from the Russian bakery this afternoon. They’d just brought out a freshly made tray from the back.”

  “Where is this bakery?”

  “If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you.”

  “Some part of me thinks you mean that,” Rhys replied.

  “Some part of me does.”

  “You’re a dangerous woman, Katya.”

  “You have no idea.”

  Katya stood and walked around the table, straddling Rhys in his chair. She wrapped her arms around his neck and ran her tongue along his lower lip, her seductive gaze never leaving his face.

  “Does this mean we’re done with dessert?” Rhys asked huskily.

  “This means our night is just beginning.”

  The glowing orb in Rhys’s belly turned to shooting flames as a hot tongue of desire leapt straight to his groin. He wrapped his arms around Katya and pulled her closer as she swiveled her hips against his, driving him wild with hunger for her. Rhys lowered his hands and cupped her round bottom. Katya wasn’t stick-skinny like most of the women he came across in his line of work. She had full, luscious breasts and an ass that begged to be… Rhys forced the naughty thought from his mind and turned his attention to her breasts instead.