“Do tell,” Rhys said, leaning forward in his eagerness.
“Not only did Alfonso Pérez make it back to Spain, but he managed to publish several plays. None of them have been translated into English, but I was able to find several instances where Padre Rafael was mentioned.”
“Why is that significant?”
“Because Alfonso joked about naming one of his characters, a priest, after Rafael. There are also several instances of someone named Julio. Do you want to get the play translated?”
“Absolutely. It might make references to Pérez’s time in Ireland and the subsequent escape. Forward the document to María Sánchez. She’s a freelance translator we regularly use.”
“Will do,” Quinn replied. “Would it make sense to go to Spain?”
“I can’t authorize a trip to Spain, since I would have to explain how you came by your information about Rafael de Silva in the first place. Our program is a docudrama, not a documentary, so as long as our assumption about what happened to our main character is within reason, no one will question it. After all, we are telling our viewers what might have happened, not what actually took place. What do we know for a fact?”
“According to Captain de Cuéllar’s account, a fierce snowstorm drove the English off, putting an end to the siege, which lasted nearly three weeks. Sir Brian and his people returned to the castle just in time for Christmas, by which time I assume the cross had been removed from the yard and dumped in the woods. Julio Fernández never received a proper burial. I found references to a number of Spaniards being buried at the parish church. The two men who were hanged by the British were probably among those interred.”
“And how did the captain and his men find their way home?” Rhys asked.
“It seems that their escape from Ireland was as eventful as their arrival, assuming the captain’s account wasn’t embellished for dramatic purposes. Perhaps Alfonso Pérez is not the only one who tried his hand at creative writing.”
“Let us assume he was telling it like it was,” Rhys suggested. “Captain de Cuéllar proved himself to be a sensible and resourceful man. How did he escape from Ireland?”
“Against the advice of Sir Brian, Captain de Cuéllar took all willing men and headed north to Derry, where he met with Bishop Redmond O’Gallagher, who already had several Spaniards in his care. The bishop arranged for the men to be transported to Scotland. They sailed to Hebrides, and then eventually arrived on the mainland. They remained in Scotland for several months, awaiting assistance from the Duke of Parma, who eventually arranged passage to Flanders for the men. Unfortunately, the Dutch were waiting for them when they arrived and fired on the ship, sinking it with everyone aboard. Most of the Spaniards drowned, but a small number of men survived and came ashore at Dunkirk. They eventually made it back to Spain. Captain de Cuéllar returned to active duty and served under Phillip II of Spain until 1602, after which time he settled in Madrid. Nothing is known of his whereabouts after 1606.”
“For the purposes of our program, Rafael de Silva will be one of the men who returned to Spain. I think it’s safe to assume he left the navy,” Rhys suggested.
Quinn nodded in agreement. Rhys was right, the viewers would appreciate a happy ending, but deep inside, she didn’t believe Rafael de Silva ever made it home. She could no longer see him or share his memories, but for some reason, she simply didn’t believe he ever saw the shores of Spain again. Most likely, he was one of the unfortunates who died off the coast of Flanders, or perhaps he never even made it that far. She’d never know the truth, but a small part of her mourned the young man he had been, and the old man he likely never became.
“Do we know what became of the men who remained in Ireland?”
“The ones who avoided capture eventually melted into the population. Sir Brian O’Rourke and his compatriot, Sean McClancy, were both arrested on charges of treason in 1590. O’Rourke was hanged, and McClancy was beheaded. One of the charges against them was providing succor to the survivors of the Armada.”
“Can’t say I’m surprised. Queen Elizabeth wasn’t one to allow such blatant treachery to go unpunished. She wasn’t a big fan of the Irish either.”
“No, she ordered her soldiers to ‘Hang the harpers wherever found,’ referring to Irish Catholics. She wasn’t nearly as tolerant as the history books make her out to be.”
“And Aisling? What became of her?” Rhys asked. “Please tell me you found something we can use.”
“I did. Aisling married Patrick Dennehy in February of 1589 and had six children over the course of the next decade, two of whom died in infancy. She died in 1632. Her eldest, Ralph, was born in August 1589,” Quinn added meaningfully.
Rhys’s eyebrows lifted dramatically. “Ralph? August 1589? You think?”
“It’s possible, but it’s also possible that the child was her husband’s. It would be irresponsible to suggest that she had a child by Rafael de Silva, in case she has living descendants.”
“We know for certain she didn’t marry de Silva, which supports my theory that he returned to Spain.”
“She didn’t marry de Silva,” Quinn concurred.
“Excellent. I will pass this on to the writers and we will start working on a screenplay for the episode. I will need you on set June fifteenth. We’ll be ready to begin filming episode six.”
“I can’t wait to meet the cast,” Quinn replied as she gathered her notes.
“I have no doubt you’ll be pleased.”
“And episode five?”
“Done and dusted. Katya pronounced it to be zamechatelno,” Rhys said, struggling with the unfamiliar word.
“And what does that mean?”
“It means ‘excellent’ in Russian.”
“And how are things with Katya?” Quinn asked, smiling at Rhys, who was turning a lovely shade of rose.
“Zamechatelno,” he repeated. “I’m happy, Quinn. I can’t guarantee anything at this stage, but I think we’re a good fit. It just feels right, you know?”
Quinn nodded. She did know. When you met the one, you always knew it, even if you didn’t admit it to yourself right away. Thankfully, Rhys was mature and open enough to see a good thing and grab it with both hands.
“I’m happy for you, Rhys,” Quinn said. “Truly.”
Rhys just smiled.
Having left Rhys to work out the details of the program, Quinn went to meet Logan at the London Hospital canteen. They hadn’t seen each other in a fortnight, and she missed his smiling face and reassuring presence. Logan was an oasis of sanity in a family that could greatly benefit from group therapy.
Logan met Quinn at the entrance and caught her in a bear hug. “Hey there, sis. I missed you. Shall we get some grub? I’m starving.”
“Me too. I skipped breakfast.”
“I can’t promise you much in terms of taste, but you won’t leave hungry,” Logan joked as he led Quinn toward the canteen. They picked up a couple of sandwiches and cups of steaming tea and found a table by the window. Logan opened a packet of crisps and popped one in his mouth, rolling his eyes in ecstasy. “I could live on these. Want some?”
“No, they’re addictive,” Quinn said, instantly regretting her choice of words. “Sorry…”
“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for,” Logan replied.
“How is Jude? I haven’t visited him in a few weeks.”
“Bored. Miserable. Frustrated. Desperate for a hit,” Logan replied. “I think he’s trying to sweet talk the nurses into getting him some weed, but they’re standing firm.”
“Is he clean?”
“For now.”
“Do you think he wants to remain clean?”
“I want to eat better and exercise at least three times a week,” Logan said, popping another crisp into his mouth. “Will I do it? Probably not. There’s a big difference between wanting and doing.”
“Are you saying you’ve given up on him?” Quinn demanded, outraged by Logan’s flippant attitude.
“No, Quinny, I haven’t given up on him, but I can’t force him to get better. Only he can do that, and only if he has a will of steel. It’s not easy to beat an addiction.”
“No, I don’t suppose it is,” Quinn agreed. “I’ll visit him this weekend, give him the benefit of my wisdom. At least I know where to find him.”
“Have you heard from Jo?” Logan asked gently.
Quinn shook her head. “No. Her phone is turned off and there’s no one at the flat. She just took off, Logan. She didn’t even say goodbye. I rang Charles Sutcliffe, and he said Jo’s on an assignment. He wouldn’t tell me where she’d gone.”
“Has Drew heard from her?”
“She left him a message and sent him payment for services rendered. I just don’t understand it,” Quinn complained. “One minute she was all fired up about finding her daughter, and then she just vanished.”
“I think she’s found her,” Logan replied.
“How do you mean?”
“Whatever was in that letter made all the difference. Either her father told her where her baby had gone, or perhaps he told Jo her baby is gone. That would certainly account for her sudden exit.”
“I don’t understand it,” Quinn said sadly.
“Quinn, you’ve got to let her go.”
“She’s my sister, Logan. Our sister.”
“Yes, but you can’t force people to play Happy Families any more than you can force them to give up heroin. She has to want to have a relationship with us, and from what I’ve seen, the jury’s still out on that one. Jo will come back, and when she does, what happens next will be up to her. Until then, it’s ‘sayonara, baby.’”
Quinn reached out and took Logan’s hand. “Whatever happens, I’m grateful I have you in my life.”
“Me too,” Logan said and squeezed her hand affectionately.
Quinn’s phone vibrated in her pocket and she pulled it out, frowning at the caller ID. “It’s Rhys. I just saw him. Excuse me a moment,” she said and took the call. “Rhys, did you have a question?”
“No, I have the answer,” Rhys replied cryptically.
“To what?”
“To what the next episode will be about. Meet me tomorrow at nine. I’ll text you the address.”
“Can you give me a clue?”
Rhys exhaled loudly. “I think you need to see this for yourself, Quinn. It’s… I have no words. Don’t eat before you come.”
“Oh Lord, as bad as that?”
“Worse. See you tomorrow.”
“Looks like we have a new case,” she told Logan. “Rhys won’t even tell me what it is, it’s so shocking.”
“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Logan said, looking at her with concern. “It takes a toll on you, even I can see that.”
“That’s what Gabe says, but it’s like witnessing a car crash. You are horrified but can’t seem to look away.”
“Look away, Quinn, before you’re the one whose life is bleeding out on the asphalt,” Logan said. “You don’t have to shoot up or walk across a minefield to self-destruct.”
Quinn pushed away her plate, no longer hungry. She wanted to be angry with Logan for putting it to her so bluntly, but she couldn’t find the energy to be mad. Logan cared about her, and he was telling her the truth as he saw it. Gabe had said much the same thing, only in kinder terms. Perhaps they were right, and it was time to walk away from Echoes, and from her gift.
Epilogue
September 1595
Damascus, Syria
Rafael strolled down the dark street, a leather satchel slung over his shoulder. The air was warm and fragrant, and a full moon hung so low it brushed the minarets of the Umayyad Mosque. Thousands of stars twinkled against the black velvet of the sky and a gentle breeze caressed Rafael’s face like a loving hand. He stopped for a moment to admire the beauty of the night. Since the day seven years ago when he’d washed up on the shores of Ireland, he’d never taken a single day for granted. He considered that day in September 1588 the moment of his rebirth, although the birth had been long and painful
Having reached his house, Rafael unlocked the door, kissed his fingers, and pressed them against the mezuzah mounted on the doorpost, as tradition demanded. He closed the door behind him and tiptoed to the kitchen. It was late; Sariah and the children were already in bed and he had no wish to wake them. Rafael poured himself a cup of pomegranate juice and carried it to a small room on the top floor that he used as his study, where he sat in his favorite chair, next to the arched window that overlooked the city skyline.
He needed to write up his notes on tonight’s patient, but he could do that tomorrow. He kept copious notes on all his cases, not only for himself, but for young Rafi, who he hoped would follow in his footsteps and become a physician once he was old enough. Sariah had wanted to name the boy Abraham, but Rafael had insisted on naming the child Rafael, not after himself, but because of what the name meant. He hadn’t known it while growing up, but Rafael meant ‘God heals’ in Hebrew. Could any name be more appropriate for a physician?
Rafael reached into his pocket and pulled out a delicate gold hamsa. He had it with him always, not because it brought back memories of Mira and his life in Spain, but because it reminded him of the journey that had led him to freedom.
After the siege ended, Sir Brian and the rest of the clan had returned to the castle. Everyone had been full of good cheer at driving the English off without firing a single shot and proving to be a thorn in the side of Queen Elizabeth yet again, a prospect that pleased Sir Brian to no end. Preparation for the Christmas feast had begun, but not everyone at the castle was in high spirits. The cross bearing Julio had been removed from the yard and carried a good distance beyond the castle walls, where it was dumped unceremoniously on the ground. No one bothered to remove the corpse or bury it, partially because the ground was frozen solid, and partially because no one cared enough to bother. The animals would make short work of Julio’s remains, and they were welcome to him as far as the Spaniards were concerned.
After the crucifixion, the balance of power among the survivors had shifted, with José and Pedro taking on the role of leaders. Captain de Cuéllar still joined his countrymen for meals, but he couldn’t find it in his heart to forgive the men who’d ordered Julio’s death. His inability to prevent the act of barbarism that would likely haunt him for the rest of his days weighed heavily on his mind, and he concluded that he could no longer remain at the castle. After conferring with Sir Brian and Kieran O’Rourke, the captain decided to travel to Derry to see Bishop O’Gallagher, who was sympathetic to the survivors and had the means and the connections to help the men secure passage to Spain. The captain shared his plan with a select few, including Rafael. Twelve men left the castle just after Christmas, setting off on foot. Sir Brian had been kind enough to provide the men with daggers, several blankets, and bundles of food.
When it came to it, leaving Aisling wasn’t hard. Their fledging relationship had crumbled, torn asunder by Rafael’s guilt over Julio’s death and Aisling’s lack of remorse at what she had done. She thought he was upset about losing his amulet, but it was so much more than that. Rafael had meant to explain, to break the news to her gently, but instead, he simply walked away on that fateful morning, relieved to be finished with Castle O’Rourke and everyone in it.
It took nearly two weeks to reach Derry and then another several months to get to Glasgow by way of the Hebrides, after which they waited several weeks for a boat to take them to the mainland. Every step of the way, the men grew more confident. It would take time to get back to Spain, but at least their lives were not in any immediate danger in Scotland. The people weren’t unwelcoming, and there was always a meal and a place to sleep to be found in any church or the home of a Catholic nobleman. Rafael never spoke of his plans to anyone. He simply watched and waited.
They arrived in Glasgow in the middle of March, and that was when he knew it was time. He didn’t tell anyone he was leaving. He would h
ave liked to say farewell to the captain and thank him for his guidance and support, but that would require an explanation, something he couldn’t provide. Rafael simply stole away one night, losing himself in the narrow, twisted streets of Glasgow and then eventually moving on to Aberdeen, where he worked at the docks until he saved enough money to set off on his journey to the Middle East. It had taken him nearly a year to reach Damascus.
Rafael took a sip of juice and let out a sigh of contentment. He had a good life in Syria. There was a large Jewish community that lived side by side with the Muslims in peace. For the first time in his life, Rafael was free of persecution and fear. He’d embarked on a course of study that had allowed him to become a physician, married his beautiful Sariah, and started a family. The only thing that marred his happiness was the fate of his family in Toledo. He hadn’t been able to return to Spain but had questioned every Spanish Jew who passed through Damascus, begging for news of his family. It had taken years to come across someone he’d known in Toledo, but his joy was short-lived.
“Rafael de Silva,” Don Miguel had exclaimed. “As I live and breathe. Everyone thought you perished when your ship went down. How your father grieved. He performed a kriah and refused to mend his doublet for a full year. Ramόn did it as well.”
That bit of news nearly broke Rafael’s heart. His father had not torn his clothes, as was the Jewish custom when someone beloved passed, when his wife died. It was too risky for a well-to-do man to walk around the streets of Toledo in a torn doublet. It raised questions. But he’d done it when he thought he’d lost his son. He must have blamed himself for urging Rafael to join the army. Perhaps he’d even wished that he’d allowed Rafael to study medicine.
“Tell me, is my father well? What about my brother?”
The news wouldn’t be recent. Don Miguel had been travelling for seven months, but it was better than nothing. The man sighed and averted his gaze. “I wish I could bring you happy tidings, don Rafael, but I don’t think your father is still with us. He was arrested on a charge of sorcery and heresy, and no one ever saw him again. Your brother tried to discover what became of him. He went to the prison week after week, but eventually gave up.”
The Betrayed (Echoes from the Past Book 7) Page 31
