The Crown of Valencia

by Catherine Friend

  Bodies stirred in the darkness and someone coughed. “Hello?” I repeated.

  “Praise God,” someone whispered.

  “Kate?” Squinting against the torch, a man, filthy but recognizable, staggered toward the grate.

  “Nuño!” A second limped into the light. “Grimaldi! Oh god, you’re hurt.” Someone shouted outside, so I flung off my sheet and grabbed the bars, yanking hard, but of course it was locked. “Key!”

  “Don’t know.” Nuño’s voice was flat. “They never open it.” I began searching the walls and floor.

  “On the guard?” Grimaldi offered.

  “I checked already. Wait.” I pulled a metal plate off the wall and found a shallow niche with keys. The shouts outside grew louder and enough horses galloped by to mount an army.

  “Hurry, Kate.” Grimaldi’s voice was weak. He held the torch through the bars while I fumbled with the key. It clicked into place and the iron grate swung open.

  “C’mon, not much time,” Nuño said, supporting Grimaldi. But when I flung open the door into the square, my heart stopped.

  “Shit!” I cursed in English. An entire army of Moorish soldiers filled the square and all faced the doorway where we stood. When we appeared, over one hundred swords left their scabbards, filling the moonless night with a terrible, silky smooth whoosh.

  No one spoke, but a few horses snorted in the cool air.

  “Not very good odds, I am afraid,” Grimaldi murmured.

  The army parted for Anna, her hair down, cape hastily thrown over her shoulders. We stared at each other. “What now?” I asked.

  “To paraphrase the Wicked Witch of the West,” she said, “the last to go will watch the first two go before her.’”

  “You’re sick.”

  “No, I’m right, so make peace with yourself and your god, Kate, because tomorrow it all ends.” I had been wrong. No shadow love for Anna Lee remained in my heart, my soul, my body. I could not imagine ever having loved her.

  A dozen guards advanced with swords drawn. For a second I felt my companions hesitate, and I understood. Would it be better to die in a hopeless escape attempt than to be tied up and beheaded in a public spectacle? As Nuño tensed, I decided I wasn’t yet ready for suicide, so I stepped back into the jail. After a brief hesitation, Nuño and Grimaldi followed. The iron grate clanked into place behind us, the outer door creaked shut, and we were left in total darkness.

  *

  Grimaldi explained politely that the right back corner was the toilet area, but the whole cell reeked so badly I had occasional gagging and coughing fits all night. As the three of us sat with our backs against the wall, I couldn’t see three inches in front of my face, but my hearing grew sharp enough so that I could identify Nuño’s boot scraping the dirt floor, or the rustle of Grimaldi’s robe.

  “Okay, explanation,” I said softly.

  Grimaldi chuckled. “Like why is an old guy like me chasing after a young chick like you?” I waited. “Before you and Arturo left Zaragoza, he told me...” I could sense Grimaldi looking toward Nuño. “Ah, hmm. Don’t know as I should say this.”

  Nuño’s disgust rumbled through his chest. “I don’t want to know, right?” I’d used this line on poor Nuño a number of times as he was helping me rescue Elena from Gudesto Gonzalez eight years ago.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Forget I’m here, and say it.”

  “Kate, Arturo told me he’d read of your death. He knew the date. He knew how it was to happen. He begged me to do what I could to stop it.”

  “Date?”

  “Tomorrow. The method of death is—”

  “Beheading. Execution for blasphemy,” I finished. So that’s what Arturo had found in the footnotes of Kalleberg’s book. “Why would my death have made the history books?”

  “He said it had to do with you being the first foreigner beheaded, and the first in a long string of beheadings, all ordered by the mullah of Valencia.”

  I winced. Everything Arturo had read was about to come true. “Nuño?”

  “I do not want to understand any of what you are saying, but I’m here for the same reason. Grimaldi came to us last week and told Enzo, Fadri and myself you were in danger, and if we did not find you by tomorrow’s date, you would die.” He sighed deeply, stirring the dust at his feet. “I do not understand how Grimaldi knew this, but I could not afford to take it lightly.”

  I swallowed, pushing against the emotion racing up my throat. “You both came looking for me. To save me.” Silence. “What of Enzo and Fadri?”

  “In camp. We still have a job to do, and in case something went wrong inside the walls, I didn’t want us all to be captured.”

  “And Elena? Any word from her?”

  “ I saw her once before Grimaldi arrived. I’m sure Enzo and Fadri have spoken to her since, but I don’t know where she is.”

  “Nuño has told me what happened,” Grimaldi said. “It must be hard on Luis...or rather, Elena, to have the truth revealed. I was startled myself at the news.”

  Talking of Elena suddenly became a way to lighten the oppressive heat a bit. Slowly, cautiously, we began sharing stories. Time passed and the darkness lifted as I told the story of the day at the grove outside Zaragoza when she dove naked into the pond at the sound of voices, and then emerged like a goddess rising from the sea to kill the two men who had attacked me. Grimaldi remembered when Luis came to his wedding in shining mail and red cloak, and had shown infinite patience with the throngs of children who’d wanted to ride Matamoros or hold Luis’s sword.

  We finished the last of the water in a mold-encrusted jug, and Nuño began talking about the years after I left, but stopped when he realized it might cause me pain. “Keep going,” I murmured, so I heard about Luis and Rodrigo rejoining the Castilian army, still as mercenaries, following Rodrigo on raids to Aragon and Catalonia, about Elena’s struggle to recover from losing me. “When she laughed again for the first time, six months after you left, I knew she would get better. I kept her mind off you with hard fighting, hard riding, and hard drinking.”

  Grimaldi laughed weakly from his corner, and I imagined his fingers laced across his wiry chest. “You weren’t always such hard drinkers, Nuño. Elena told me of the time the monks harvested you and her from the trees like apples.” Nuño protested but Grimaldi chuckled and continued. “When they were sixteen and still new to Valvanera, Elena and Nuño stole four bottles of wine from the cellar and climbed the wide oak tree near the stables, thinking they’d never be seen in the thick foliage.”

  “It was her idea.”

  “So they drank all the wine, and being unused to alcohol, became groggy and confused and fell out of their perches, landing on the lower branches.”

  “Ouch,” I said.

  “It was her idea,” Nuño insisted.

  “Father Ruiz came outside to check on this great crashing of branches and found them both draped over the lowest branch, legs, arms, and heads dangling, the four bottles on the ground beneath them.”

  Nuño chuckled now. “One minute I was straddling a high fork in the tree, then the next thing I knew, Father Ruiz was shining a torch into my face and my whole body ached.”

  It was subtle, but I noticed all of us referred to her with the female pronoun and used Elena rather than Luis. What if the world could accept her for the woman she really was? We talked into the night of families and children, of disappointments, of dreams. At one point Grimaldi and I switched into English to discuss life in two centuries.

  Eventually, though, talking ceased, trickling down to an occasional murmur, then nothing. In our black tomb we had no way to gauge time. Had the sun crested the mountains to the east? Had Execution Day begun?

  I had wrestled with a thought all night long, and finally decided. “Nuño?”

  He murmured a reply, shaking himself awake. “Yes?”

  I took a deep breath. Elena may hate me for this, but she hated me already. “You and Elena.” Silence. “I know yo
u and she...were together.”

  Air rushed in through his wide nostrils. “She told you. I am sor—”

  “Nuño, it’s okay. I’m glad you could comfort…that she has you...” I couldn’t finish the sentence.

  The large man sighed. “Well, it wasn’t as you think. It was one night, and one night only.” He shifted, feet scraping in the dark, and suddenly his story flowed from him like a bottle uncorked. “The fourth anniversary of the day you left, we went to Mirabueno, as we always did. I don’t know why, but she always thought you might appear, just as she had found you the first time.” Elena’s pain must have been excruciating. All I’d had to do was step into that cave to return to her, but there was nothing she could do to get to me. “But once again, you weren’t there. We drank ale, way too much ale. Elena cried. She said you were never coming back. Then she turned to me. She revealed her sex, which I already knew, of course. I...We...”

  “You made a baby,” I said softly.

  The cell became so quiet my ears rang. “What?” he whispered.

  Oh, Christ. He didn’t even know. “You made a baby.” I licked my lips. “It really isn’t my place to tell you, but in case tomorrow really happens—”

  “But—”

  “It only takes one time. Did Elena go away for awhile after that?”

  “No, we were part of the Elche campaign. That took three, four months. Then we...no, then I returned to Burgos. She...” His voice grew louder. “She wintered at Valvanera. My mother was ill, so I didn’t pay much attention.”

  “You didn’t see her for another five or six months.”

  “Yes! It was the longest we’d gone without seeing one another. Holy Christ!” Nuño leapt to his feet. “I have a child? Why did she not tell me?” I let him rant for a few minutes, venting to a woman who wasn’t here. Eventually the anger subsided into wonder.

  “Her name is Solana,” I said. “She has black curly hair, and your eyes, and your dimples. She is stubborn and strong-willed. She loves adventure.”

  “Oh, my god.” The wonder subsided into grief, and I could tell by his voice that he curled over his raised knees in pain. “I will never see her, will I?”

  “I’m truly sorry, Nuño, but I thought you should know.”

  A ragged sigh came from his corner. “Yes, I am...glad to know.” We joined Grimaldi in his silence.

  I thought about Arturo, and imagined him home in his room with the race car wallpaper, with steady old Max by his side. This was the real Arturo, not the ruler Anna was creating. I thought about Elena, my brave, furious love, determined to do what was right. I thought about the professor. How long would he wait in that cave before he realized nothing would change? How would he live his last days, weeks, months before the disruptive history blinked him into oblivion?

  Thanks to the letter Arturo had left for Laura, she’d know what happened to me, but would not likely believe it. She would lose her best friend for the second time. And then, when the wave moving through history extended its fingers into her past, she’d cease to exist as well.

  The longer I sat there, sweat plastering my shirt and pants to my skin, eyes searching for some pinprick of light, the more I began to see this might be it. I would never hold Arturo again, never have a chance to reconcile with Elena, never figure out how I would fit into the world, how I’d make my life matter.

  *

  When the door finally swung open, we were too blinded to resist. Soldiers jerked us to our feet and bound our hands loosely behind our backs, the rough jute chaffing my wrists. Eyes shut, I was led outside and the hot sun brought goose bumps to my arms. As I stumbled along, I was able to open my eyes wider and take in the scene. The square was filled with townspeople, Christian and Moor, and Moorish soldiers, all silent as they watched us enter the square, where a shaded viewing platform rose up from the crowd. No surprise, the platform held Anna, dressed in a somber black gown, but I choked to see Carlos sitting beside her.

  The two were arguing, with Carlos nodding emphatically toward me. When he clutched at Anna’s arm, it was clear he implored her to change her mind, so I wondered if Carlos now regretted his choices. Up until this moment, Anna’s plotting had been political, almost academic, but as we neared June 15, she would let no one stop her, including me. She shrugged him off, shaking her head.

  The guards paraded us past Anna’s platform. Carlos wouldn’t meet my eyes but instead studied his hands, his mouth working so furiously I knew he was on the verge of tears. Good. He should feel badly.

  Arturo was absent, so Anna must still have him locked in the tower. Even though Arturo had been swept up into Anna’s world, I knew he loved me. He had to know what day it was and was powerless to help. I, in turn, could do nothing to help him.

  Anna and I exchanged steely glares, and one corner of her mouth lifted, a sort of “sorry about this, old chap” smile. She raised a hand, halting the procession, then walked smoothly toward us. She stood in front of me, then touched my neck.

  “What—one last look before it’s chopped off?” I said, struggling to sound more defiant than I felt.

  “No, my dear.” She reached around my neck and unclasped my pearl necklace. “It would be a shame to harm such a lovely jewel. I will keep it safe and give it to Arturo as a keepsake of his first mother.”

  I stunned us both when I spat in her face. I didn’t even wait to see her wipe if off, but whirled and continued my march. Damn, that felt good.

  We clomped up the wobbly steps onto a platform of heavy beams and deep brown planks. Next to a cube of granite towered the angst-ridden executioner I’d overheard last night. Face impassive, eyes focused over our heads, Haroun was hardened clay compared to last night’s pile of sand.

  As the guards lined us up facing the crowd, then stepped back behind us, I became acutely aware of the world. Silver acacia leaves fluttered in the breeze. A woman’s brilliant saffron robe made my heart ache. Browns seemed richer, blues more intense, and grays were such a deep velvet I could almost feel the softness against my fingertips.

  Grimaldi caught my eye and smiled bravely. Time did not slow down as I expected it would, but rushed on with such helpless inevitability I knew things were really, truly, out of my control. Last winter, when I’d hit a patch of ice on the drive to work and spun around like a top, I’d cranked the wheel to the right, then to the left, trying to control the skidding, but nothing worked. As the world whirled around me outside the car window, I gripped the wheel and moaned at the knowledge that I was going to crash.

  That same helplessness filled me now, and I felt again the car jump the curve, slam into the stop sign, and plow into the snow pile. A ragged sigh escaped. This landing would not be as soft.

  The mullah, a fierce bald man with thick eyebrows and sallow skin, read the charges against us. I tuned him out even though he spoke slowly enough to understand. Instead I gazed up at the walls of Valencia, imagining Enzo, Fadri, and the others going about their lives on the other side. Elena was goddess-knows where. Rodrigo was an addict. Christ, what a mess.

  My heart pounded like a piston when I realized the mullah had fallen silent. He had finished his part and turned to the executioner, who nodded to the guards. It took three of them to drag Nuño to the granite block and force him to his knees. No. Not Nuño!

  “My child,” he moaned. “I would have liked to see my child.” Oh, god, why had I told him about Solana? My heart ripped open as I searched the crowd for a friendly face because, in all the movies, this was where the good guys in the crowd would fling off their disguises and save the day. But I saw no help, no spark of sympathy, no hope, so I whirled toward Anna. “Anna Lee, you stop this right now!” I roared in English.

  She shook her head stiffly, as if her spine had fused with indifference.

  Nuño’s head hung off the front of the block and his powerful body trembled, but he had stopped struggling. His eyes were open and sweat glistened in his curls. He whispered, “Solana, Solana,” over and over again. Haroun
the executioner hefted his gleaming axe and moved into position.

  Christ. Oh my god. I swayed against Grimaldi. This couldn’t happen. Why didn’t someone stop it? How could these people just stand there and watch a man be murdered? He’d done nothing, nothing at all but care. He would never see Solana. He would die with that deep sadness.

  The executioner raised the axe over his head, and I moved without thought across the platform. “No! Stop!” I rushed the executioner. “You can’t kill my brother. Or my uncle. We’re family.” I pushed my tear-streaked face against the surprised man’s chest, the axe still overhead. “We’re all my mother has left. If you kill us she’ll be alone in the world. We’re family. How can you wipe out an entire family?”

  Haroun stepped back, lowering the axe to his side, eyes wide with horror, disbelief creasing his face. “No, Allah, no. Not another family,” he moaned. Conflicting emotions churned within the man’s chest, contorting his features, cramping his fingers into claws. Finally he threw back his head and let loose a mournful howl, an animal betrayed by the world.

  The crowd murmured in confusion as the howl bounced off the buildings, an echo of misery, then he flung down the axe. “I cannot do this any longer. Allah knows I have tried, but I am not strong enough. The money be damned,” he roared, stomping down the stairs and pushing his way through the crowd.

  “Come back!” cried the mullah, but the man disappeared down the nearest street.

  Confusion erupted at this unheard-of event, but the guards quickly closed around us to prevent our escape. Nuño sat back on his heels, forehead resting on the warm stone, and I dropped to my knees beside him. “Nuño, are you okay?”

  He raised his head, and I watched him struggle back from wherever he’d gone to prepare himself for death. “What happened?”

  “I bought us a little time.” He slumped back against the stone, and my heart nearly broke, since without a rescue, Nuño would have to go through this a second time. It might have been kinder to let the axe fall.

  Grimaldi drew closer to us as a ring of twenty guards towered over us. There was no hope of escape. Shouts and arguments swirled through the crowd as the mullah struggled to enlist a replacement. Thirty minutes later, the guards stepped back, and the executioner’s friend, so hungry for money, stepped forward, glowing with the thought of the extra coin in his pocket. I tried to hate him, but his robes were frayed and didn’t hide his gaunt frame.