A Murder Most Watchful

by Jefferson Bonar

  Mencía stepped forwards, watching the men to make sure they would do what Garcia had agreed to.

  “Good morning, Mencía,” Garcia said.

  None of the men held chains or weapons, and they stood at a distance in a relaxed manner to show they would not come after her.

  “Please, I beseech you, child,” Barreda said from behind her. “Do not do this!”

  Mencía turned around to face Barreda through the door.

  “I’m sorry, Father. I have to. Thank you for your kindness. It will never be forgotten.”

  Mencía let her hand fall onto Barreda’s arm, and he put his other hand on top of it and smiled at her.

  “Good luck, Mencía,” Barreda said.

  Mencía then turned and walked down the few steps to the road and joined Garcia and his men. It felt ironic that she had to place herself in their hands in order to gain her freedom. She risked so much, but it had to be done.

  “Are you ready?” Garcia asked.

  Mencía nodded and was helped onto the back of one of the mules, and the group set off.

  The men conversed amongst themselves during the long trip south as they headed to the edge of the plateau and then began to plunge into canyons buried in forests of pine trees where the dry desert air gave way to the cooler, salty breezes of the sea.

  Mencía preferred it this way, as it gave her time to contemplate what she’d agreed to. During all her time with Barreda, she’d never been given much time by herself to think. As with most priests, Barreda felt it was his job to fill the silences with proselytizing or prayer. But Mencía just wanted a moment of peace.

  She regretted it now, however. The gravity of what she’d agreed to after a few more conversations with Garcia was beginning to hit her. They’d worked out the details of their deal, and Mencía had taken the opportunity to negotiate one last compromise with Garcia, which had been a sticking point for two days until his greed had gotten him to agree.

  And now they were headed back to La Herradura, which Mencía had found herself missing more and more. It had begun to feel like home to her before these men had shown up. She had started to see what life could be like if she’d stayed. She saw herself maybe building a house, living a life where her baby boy grew up alongside the Aguilars, and perhaps bringing Anton to join them.

  But all of those dreams had dissipated. Her life would be quite different to those silly fantasies, and she had to ready herself for it. Because what was coming next would be the hardest part.

  They reached the outskirts of La Herradura by late afternoon and took the main road into the plaza. They attracted a lot of attention as Mencía’s mule shuffled down the uncobbled lane. By now everyone in town knew who she was, and the rumours of what happened must have been swirling about for days. So to see her come back into town, and with the same men who’d been chasing her, must have been quite a sight.

  The men followed the lane back out of the plaza and up the hill towards the edge of town where the Aguilars lived. Mencía hopped off the mule without taking the hand Garcia offered.

  “Mencía!” Ana yelled as she brushed the cloth in the door aside and ran over.

  Mencía was treated to a warm hug and a suspicious stare from Hector, who stood behind Ana.

  “I’m so happy to see you!” Ana said. Then she noticed Garcia and his men standing behind Mencía. “What is going on?”

  “I’m here to see Federico,” Mencía said, her eyes already watering. “Is he here?”

  “Yes, he is in the back, napping. But I’m sure he’ll be happy to be awakened to see his mother.”

  Everyone went inside, including Garcia, and made their way to the back bedroom.

  And there, sleeping in a wrap made of clean, white cloth, was Federico. To Mencía, he seemed an angel. She had never seen such a perfect baby. It almost didn’t feel like he was hers. Was he glowing as a result of Ana having looked after him?

  “Come here, child. Wake up. Look who it is,” Ana said, picking Federico up.

  Federico squirmed and moaned, then opened his eyes.

  Ana handed Federico to Mencía, who took him and felt the tears begin to flow.

  “Oh, Federico, how are you? I’ve missed you so much.”

  Federico began to wail but put his infant hands on Mencía’s shoulders, as if he knew who she was.

  For a few minutes, nothing was said as Mencía and Federico embraced each other, each crying as much as the other.

  “I’ve missed you so much, my little angel. I never thought I’d see you again,” Mencía said. It startled her how much she felt for this boy and how much she was starting to sound like a mother.

  “Are you here to take him?” Hector asked Garcia, who stood with him at the door to the bedroom.

  “No,” Garcia said.

  “So why are you here?”

  As Garcia was distracted by Hector, Mencía seized her chance. She turned her back to the men and slipped something out of the folds of her dress. She had hidden it there the night before, making sure it wouldn’t be seen by the men. For if Garcia saw it, it would ruin everything.

  It was small and easy to hide in her palm, so she slipped it into the cloth that was wrapped around Federico. But the angle of her hand was bad, and it almost slipped out of her fingers.

  Ana was there, smiling at Federico and making cooing noises at him. With an unseen motion, she helped Mencía tuck the object into the cloth where it couldn’t be seen.

  Mencía felt relieved. Her plan was going to work. She had given her son the rattle, the one Barreda had fashioned for her the night before and had helped her to engrave: To my son Federico, Mencía M..

  It would be the only gift she would ever give Federico and the only connection he would ever have to her. Garcia had been dead set against her giving Federico anything that would give him clues as to his true heritage. For if he ever learned of where he came from, the humiliation it would cause Garcia’s descendants was more than he could risk.

  But Mencía wasn’t concerned with Garcia’s family. She felt her boy deserved to know who he was.

  “Mencía,” Garcia said, “it’s time to go.”

  “What? Are you not staying?” Ana asked, shocked.

  Mencía held on to her son for a few more moments, then put him back in the basket. Federico gazed up at her, smiling, before his eyes began to droop.

  “I have to leave,” Mencía said, trying to compose herself.

  “When are you coming back?” Ana asked.

  “Never, I’m afraid,” Garcia said, stepping into the room. “I’ve agreed to give Mencía her freedom if she never steps foot in this house or this pueblo again.”

  “What? Why?”

  Mencía put her hands on Ana’s shoulders. “Please, Ana. You have been so good to me. I ask one more thing of you. Raise my son as your own. You can give him the good life he deserves. I can’t.”

  “I don’t understand,” Ana said, tears in her eyes.

  “I know. But I have to do this. I have to leave. There’s no other way.”

  “What have you done?” Ana said with anger towards Garcia.

  “I’ve granted her a reprieve because I’m a merciful man,” Garcia said. “And I am under no obligation to be merciful to you as well, given you assisted Mencía with her crime.”

  Hector swore under his breath.

  “Don’t be angry at him, Ana,” Mencía said, desperate to defuse the tension. “If there is anyone to be angry at, it is me. I was the one who couldn’t be a mother to him. I’m the one who failed.”

  “No, you didn’t fail,” Ana said and embraced Mencía.

  “It is time to go,” Garcia said, putting his hand on Mencía’s shoulder. “I only agreed to a few moments. We’re already attracting more attention than I wanted.”

  Ana began to protest, but Mencía pulled away. Garcia was right.

  A few moments, that is all. That was what Garcia had agreed to the day before. Just enough to say goodbye. Forever.

  �
��Goodbye, Ana,” Mencía said and left the room while she still could.

  Back outside, Mencía wiped the tears from her cheek. Behind her was the life she almost had but now had to let go of. In front of her was another, one that was unknown and now, as she stood there, staring at the horizon, a bit frightening.

  “The letter…” Garcia said, holding his hand out.

  Mencía took the letter she’d stashed down the front of her dress and handed it to Garcia, who unrolled it and read it over.

  “Don’t worry, it’s what we agreed.”

  Garcia read it anyway to be sure. But Mencía had meant no deception when she’d scrawled it out the night before. It stated she and Garcia had married and had a son named Federico Marañón, which would become the new name of Garcia’s son. The Marañón name would grant him all the privileges of nobility that Garcia wanted.

  And in return, Garcia handed her the reins to the mule, which had been packed with a generous amount of provisions for just one person.

  “Make sure you never come back,” Garcia said. “If I ever learn you had contact with your child again, our deal will be off. I will find you and hang you. And if you’re dead, I’ll have your boy’s neck in your stead. Either way, someone will pay for your crime.”

  Mencía mounted the mule and yanked the reins away from Garcia, also to send a message. “I won’t come back. And try not to let your son grow up to be as arrogant a bellaco as you. I have my family’s reputation to consider.”

  Without waiting for a response, Mencía shook the reins, and the mule began its slow shuffle out of town.

  Before long, Mencía had left the town without once looking back, climbed up the canyons, and reached the plateau with a vast and empty countryside in front of her. A countryside full of promise, full of danger, and full of opportunity.

  But it also held something else—freedom. Although it broke her heart to leave her son behind, it meant she was free. There was no going back this time. Not to anyone.

  A gale swirled about her as Mencía began her march into the unknown, which threw sheets of dust into the air. And into this dust, Mencía disappeared.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  December 1660

  Lucas stood in front of Armada’s door, not sure what to expect. They had been back in Granada for a few weeks now, and he had heard little from the old man. Eusebio had offered him a couple of new cases, but he had turned them all down. It was rare for Armada to take time off for any reason, for he always preferred to go from one case to another with a few days in between, never allowing himself too much time at home to think.

  Which was why Lucas was so nervous. There was a chance the old man was dead on the other side of this door or had made the decision to quit the Brotherhood. Perhaps he had already fled into the night to start a new life somewhere else.

  In all those situations, Lucas ended up without wages. And in a cold, unforgiving city like Granada at this time of the winter, it meant life would get much more difficult.

  Lucas sighed. There was no other way to do this. So he knocked. “Sir?”

  There was no response, which was worrying. Lucas used the key Armada had given him and unlocked the door. He stepped inside Armada’s one-room flat and took a moment to let his eyes adjust.

  Although it was the middle of the day, Armada’s window looked to the north over a small lane with high rooftops that blocked the sun for much of the day. So it was always cold and a bit damp inside and the reason Armada had rented it so cheap. He hadn’t seen the need to pay more, for he was always travelling.

  “Sir? Are you here?” Lucas called into the darkness.

  There was movement in front of him. Lucas saw a head pop up over the back of the sofa in the middle of the room.

  “Lucas? Is that you?”

  “Yes, sir,” Lucas said, relieved the old man was alive. He went to the window and drew the curtains, which let in a sliver more of grey light.

  “I apologise for not coming to the door, Lucas. I haven’t been sleeping very well.”

  Lucas got a good look at Armada for the first time to find him looking pale and having lost a bit of weight. Armada sat up, and a tin goblet that he used for sherry fell to the floor, splashing it onto the broken stone tiles.

  Lucas went to pick it up.

  “Oh, leave it,” Armada snapped.

  “Yes, sir.”

  That’s when Lucas noticed it—the old man’s right hand. His palm was bleeding again. Lucas went to grab a cloth.

  “I apologise again, Lucas. But I received some distressing news yesterday. It’s been on my mind ever since.”

  “What’s that, sir?” Lucas asked as he wrapped the cloth around Armada’s hand.

  “Pedro Sanchez from the La Herradura case. He was hanged just after lunchtime yesterday. Although I didn’t have the heart to witness it myself.”

  “That’s great, sir.

  “No,” Armada said as Lucas finished wrapping the bandage and tied it off. “I don’t think so. In fact, I’ve come to realise he got away from us.”

  “How, sir?”

  “Pedro Sanchez went to his grave believing he had followed orders, which somehow absolved him of his sins. I’m betting his conscience was clear when they put the noose around his neck. Which means his execution…was pointless. I should have…”

  Lucas saw the stone Armada had been using to wrap his fingers around sitting on the floor nearby, so he scooped it up and placed it in the old man’s hand.

  “I can still smell that place,” Armada said, staring at the stone. “That scent of rotting death just under the water. It won’t leave me…”

  “I know, sir. It doesn’t just go away—”

  “What do you know? You’re a child!” Armada yelled and threw the stone across the room. It cracked a floor tile in the corner of the room and came to rest under the window.

  Armada glared at Lucas, then took a few deep breaths.

  “You don’t know,” Armada said. “That’s how Pedro justified his horrific crimes to himself. But it was also my own. Telling myself I was following orders, that I had no choice. It was the only way to keep my sanity in Peru. But I, too, used it to justify such horrific…”

  Lucas was tempted to retrieve the stone once again and give it to Armada, but he stayed rooted in his spot. He was too angry. Armada was always doing this. It was as though no one could ever feel more pain and misery than the old man. Especially not Lucas, whose every feeling was never enough for Armada to consider important. When would he stop being too young for everything in this world? He didn’t feel young anymore. That was clear when he was around other boys his age. And he was sick of it.

  “I do know, sir,” Lucas said, ready for Armada’s wrath once again.

  Armada said nothing.

  “Remember when you helped me up the ladder to the watchtower?” Lucas said. “You helped me see what my cowardice was about. I was supposed to have conquered my fear that day. At least, that’s what it looked like.”

  Lucas felt embarrassed. He hadn’t ever planned to tell Armada all this and found it difficult to look him in the eye.

  “But I didn’t. I’m still afraid to climb very high on anything, sir. I still get the nightmares. Despite everything that happened, I’m still the coward I was before. And maybe what you’re going through will always be harder, but in a small way, I do understand. Sir.”

  Armada gazed at Lucas and smiled for the first time since they had returned to Granada.

  “You’re no coward, Lucas. Not after watching you dive into that rock pool to retrieve the baby rattle. No coward would have done that.”

  Lucas tried to hold his look of conviction, but his throat began to choke up. The tears in his eyes got hot, as if he wanted to weep. But he swallowed it. He didn’t want to look weak. Not now.

  “You told me about how Pedro said it helped to talk about it. Why don’t you talk to me? You can tell me about Peru, sir.”

  “No,” Armada said. “Those stories
are not for such young and innocent ears. Perhaps when you’re older. Now, I’m famished. Perhaps we should get some lunch.”

  “I may be young, sir, but I’m not innocent. I’ve seen more death and horrors while travelling with you than most boys my age. And who else can you talk to? You don’t have anyone else but me, sir.”

  Lucas picked up the stone for Armada’s hand and held it out to the old man.

  Armada stared at it for a long time without saying anything. It was so quiet that Lucas could hear the din of traffic outside the window. A woman was arguing with her husband about the price he paid for fabric at the local market. Another man was ushering a stubborn donkey along that wore a bell around its neck.

  Armada took the stone from Lucas, wrapped his injured fingers around it, and walked to the window, gazing at the building opposite.

  “Being on life’s early threshold, folded in the arms of death, on that plain where many Spaniards found their graves, I first drew breath,” Armada quoted.

  “Calderon, sir?” Lucas asked.

  Armada nodded. “Our company had spent months putting down a rebellion in the north,” Armada said in a voice that made him sound much older. “We were exhausted and happy to be sailing back to our barracks and warm beds, which were just a few leagues away. On the third night, we were hit by a storm and were forced to take shelter in a small bay that wasn’t on our maps…”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Sancha put the dinner on the table, same as she always did. As usual, the children raced about, and she had to scold each of them several times to calm them enough to eat. It was nothing out of the ordinary, but tonight there was extra conviction in her voice. For tonight she wouldn’t be getting much sleep, and it meant she had even less patience for her children’s antics.

  Her parents were finicky with their food, but she was grateful that her mother at least had a few mouthfuls of the warm carrot soup she’d made. If anything, it would warm her cold body enough to get a bit of sleep that night. Given the dramatic events of the past few weeks, with so much gossip flying about, it was no wonder her mother had trouble sleeping.