The Devils of Cardona (35 page)

•   •   •

M
ERCADER
HAD
ORDERED
the curtains on the left side of the carriage drawn because the sunlight irritated his skin condition. From the opposite window, he watched the mountains and valleys tediously unfold as the carriage bumped its way up the dusty road toward Vallcarca. The inquisitor did not like mountains. He disliked their extremes of heat and cold, their steep ascents and descents and the bone-crunching roads that turned into muddy swamps whenever it rained. Centuries ago these mountains had provided a refuge for monks fleeing the infidel invaders. Now they sealed off God's chosen people from their heretic enemies.

True civilization was not found in such places but down on the plains, in cities like Zaragoza, Madrid or Seville. And of all the cities he had ever seen, none was more beautiful or more civilized than Rome. As he stared out the window, he pictured the palazzos, villas and churches, the noble ruins and tree-covered hills, the wide streets and paved squares that he'd first seen when his father had taken him there at the age of twelve. Ever since then he had dreamed of inhabiting one of those palazzos. Or he might have one built himself, according to a design that would reflect his power and status, with comfortable rooms, and white marble corridors, and paintings by the finest Italian artists that he would personally commission, a palace that would remind the world of his presence long after he had departed it.

Compared with what Rome had to offer, even the grandest towns and cities in the Pyrenees were like pale imitations of something better, and even their most illustrious residents seemed to have modeled their thoughts, clothing and furniture on those of the inhabitants of the cities below them. Such places were to be endured rather than enjoyed, but Mercader had to endure them if he was to obtain his red cap and his palace by the Tiber, because the road to Rome led through filthy mountain inns and provincial
cities like Huesca and Jaca that reeked of dung and echoed with the sounds of the barnyard, where second-rate officials like Corregidor Calvo and Commissioner Herrero grazed out their lives in obscurity.

Such men lacked the ambition or the talent to rise further, but for him the mountains of Aragon were stepping-stones to the Vatican, and now, as he sat bumping and rocking in the carriage with Herrero and the notary Esquivel, the pains in his backside were worth enduring, because he could not allow Herrero to take credit for Segura's arrest and for the other momentous events that were about to unfold.

That glory belonged to him alone. He had brought with him letters from Inquisitor-General Valdés and Bishop Santos giving him permission to conduct a full inquisitorial investigation into the Morisco heresy at Belamar. He also had verbal assurances from Herrero that the Baron of Vallcarca would provide him with an armed escort when he went to Belamar to read out the Edict of Grace and throughout the investigation. Vallcarca had even promised him the use of his own prisons until he was ready to transport his prisoners back to Zaragoza.

This was not strictly orthodox, but the baron's men would not actually make arrests and would only assist the Inquisition in doing so, just as they had done with the Moriscos Navarro and Royo. This assistance was now essential, since Mercader's own escort of ten men was only slightly larger than the one they had brought from Zaragoza, and that might not be enough to deter the countess and her bailiff. Both Herrero and Vallcarca had assured him that the road to Vallcarca was safe and that ten men would be sufficient to take them to the
señorio
, where many more would be waiting.

“I trust that the monastery is more comfortable than this,” he said as a bump in the road jarred his spine yet again.

“It's one of the oldest in Vallcarca, Excellency,” Herrero replied.

Mercader looked dubious. Age did not guarantee comfort as far as monasteries were concerned, and an anchorite's bed was not what he required at
the end of such a journey, when a feather mattress and silk sheets would do much better.

“And where does Mendoza stay?”

“I believe he's staying at Dr. Segura's dispensary, sir.”

“Well, he's going to have a lot more room now.”

Herrero and Esquivel smiled politely at this rare example of humor from the inquisitor, and Mercader wondered how Mendoza would react to his arrival. He doubted that the man would be pleased, but he would not dare oppose the investigation when he saw the inquisitor-general's letter. They followed the road through a wide river valley broken by patches of forest and occasional villages, and Mercader was on the point of dozing off when there was a shot from just outside the carriage, followed by a series of sharp hissing noises.

He heard a heavy thump on the carriage roof, the gargled cry, the agitated neighing of horses and the unmistakable sound of sharp objects cutting flesh before the carriage came to an abrupt halt. Both the notary and Herrero looked frightened as the door opened and Diego Pachuca appeared. For a moment Mercader felt almost comforted at the sight of his
familiar
's blood-spattered face and the bloody knife in his hand, but then his relief turned to horror as Pachuca reached past him and thrust the blade almost up to the hilt into Esquivel's chest.

“For the love of God, man, what are you doing?” Mercader cried.

Esquivel made a horrible gurgling sound as he straightened up slightly, as if he were about to get out of the carriage, before sitting back lifeless, his eyes still open and his head lolling to one side. Herrero tried to open the other door, but as he did so, another shot rang out, and he fell back onto the seat holding his face. Mercader stared in horror at the bloodstained hole where Herrero's eye had been when Pachuca grabbed his collar with his thick, hairy fingers and pulled him closer, till their faces were almost touching, then sank the knife into his stomach.

The inquisitor doubled over with pain and shock. He felt the
familiar
's stubble brushing against his face and caught a faint smell of wine on his breath before Pachuca dragged him from the carriage, held him upright with one hand and slashed him across the throat in a deft horizontal stroke. As Mercader fell to the ground, he had time to see the green-and-black-clad bodies lying around him and the men on horseback and on foot with pistols, swords and crossbows whom he did not know.

To his astonishment Mercader realized that he was dying, and he wished that he could have lived a little longer, just long enough to ask Pachuca why he was killing him. But he did not even have the strength to cry out as Pachuca and one of his companions lifted him up by his hands and feet. The inquisitor caught a last glimpse of the blue Spanish sky and wondered what he had done to incur God's wrath, and then he felt himself sinking down into the cold waters, and he knew that he would never make it to Rome.

endoza woke with a dry mouth and a tightness in his stomach that he hadn't felt since Lepanto. He had slept in his clothes, and he stepped barefoot across the darkened room and pushed back the shutters. The sun was not yet visible, but the gray sky was already tinged with purple as he heard the cock crow. It seemed incredible to think that this might be the beginning of his last day on earth. Lepanto had been his last battle, and he had not expected to fight another, let alone against Christians in his own country.

The prospect of his own death did not frighten him; he'd been in danger too many times for that. But he felt sorry that he had placed Gabriel at risk. He felt sorry for Daniel, who had died because of him. His decision to visit Péris had also brought about the wood-carver's death, and though he felt little sympathy for Péris himself, the distraught expression on his widow's face had reminded
Mendoza that he was responsible for that man's death, too. And now it seemed that Segura would burn at the stake, thanks to him.

All this filled Mendoza with a mixture of guilt and frustration, because for the time being at least it was not possible to take action against Vallcarca, Mercader and the other men who were seemingly prepared to set all of Cardona on fire in order to achieve their aims. And if things went badly today, then he would have failed completely, and all the deaths that had already taken place would have no meaning.

He put on his boots and buttoned his doublet before going to wake Gabriel, who was still snoring peacefully, his mouth open.

“Wake up, boy,” he said gently.

Gabriel opened his eyes and immediately sat up like a startled deer. “Has it begun, sir?”

“Not yet. Get dressed.”

Mendoza returned to his room, buckled on his sword and clipped a pistol to his belt. He was filling his pockets with ammunition and dangled a powder bottle from a strap around his shoulder when Gabriel came in, wearing the sword that Mendoza still could not get used to seeing on him.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

They went downstairs and out into the street. Outside the village hall, small groups of armed men were standing around talking quietly while women came and went carrying trays laden with bread, cakes, buns and pitchers of water. Inside, they found Juana Segura with two Morisca volunteers and four stretcher-bearers, eating from a tray heaped high with curd patties. Her father's desk was piled with bandages, medicine bottles, ointments and a bowl containing a poultice mixture. A sword and a wooden lance were leaning against the wall behind it. Another table was lined with bowls of water, and there were mattresses and a pile of straw on the floor, in addition to two planks to be used as stretchers.

Gabriel visibly brightened at the sight of Juana, and she looked no less pleased to see him as she invited them to eat an empanada. Mendoza was not hungry, but he accepted one in an attempt to reduce the nervous agitation in his stomach. Gabriel also took one, and Mendoza noticed that his hand was trembling slightly, when Necker appeared in the doorway.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Is everything in order, Constable?”

“As much as it can be,” Necker replied. “Sir, can I have a word in private?”

The pie was surprisingly tasty, and Mendoza took another one and followed the German outside.

“Sir, I have to report that I observed some of the Moriscos at the cemetery praying this morning,” Necker said in a low voice, looking around him warily.

“And? It's what men do before battle.”

“Sir, I don't believe they were Christian prayers. They were bowing, not kneeling.”

“I see. Have you prayed this morning, Constable?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then let us hope your prayers have been heard. And for the time being, let us not concern ourselves with whom these Moriscos pray to, as long as their prayers help them to fight better.”

In that moment the lookout in the church tower let out three blasts. Outside, some of the Moriscos were pointing at the ridge above the ravine, where a line of moving men could be seen like a row of ants carrying large pins.

“Return to your position, Constable,” Mendoza said. He hurried away from the square with Gabriel trailing along behind him. As soon as they were out of sight, he stopped and said, “I want you to go to the church.”

Gabriel looked aghast. “But, sir, the church is for women and children.”

“And I am holding you responsible for them,” Mendoza said. “I made a promise to Magdalena that you would come back alive, and I intend to keep it. Go to the church and stay there. Those are my orders.”

Gabriel continued to look so abject and humiliated that Mendoza reached out and tweaked his ear affectionately. “God bless you, boy. And know that whatever happens today, I will always hold you in the highest esteem.”

Mendoza turned back down the main street, past the ramshackle inner barricade where a group of Moriscos were waiting with a collection of steel and wooden weapons.

“Courage, señores,” he said. “Remember you are fighting for your homes today.”

The Moriscos nodded, but some of them were no older than Gabriel, and their fear was obvious. Ventura presented a very different spectacle. He was sitting calmly on the edge of the
lavadero
while Martín and a group of about twenty armed Moriscos looked down at the valley, where a large mass of men was moving slowly along the road toward the village. His cousin appeared relaxed and at ease, as he always did on these occasions, and some of the Moriscos were clearly mystified and fascinated by his calm demeanor.

“There you are, cousin,” he said. “I was beginning to think you were going to sleep through this.”

“I tried.” Mendoza glanced at the two intertwined tree trunks and a cluster of stakes jutting upward in front of a shallow trench that had been constructed just inside the entrance to the town. “I see you've been busy.”

“It won't keep them out, but it may slow them down.”

Mendoza studied the advancing column below. At first sight it looked like a single prickly mass, but as it drew closer, he saw that there were gaps and bulges in their formation that suggested an armed mob rather than a disciplined army.

“How many do you think there are?” he asked.

“A hundred. Maybe a hundred and fifty.”

“There might be the same numbers coming down from the ridge. It looks like they're going to come along the road and the ravine.”

“The wall and the cemetery are well defended,” Ventura said. “The other entrances are all blocked. They're too narrow for that many to get through anyway.”

“How many guns do we have?”

“Five harquebuses and three hunting rifles, two escopetas and about twenty pistols, but plenty of wood and steel and men who want to fight.” Ventura grinned at the watching Moriscos. “Are you ready to fight, brothers?”

“Yes!” the Moriscos chorused back.

“I asked if you'll fight!” Ventura roared.

This time the response was more aggressive and visceral.

“Then I'll fight with you!” Ventura raised his sword high. Mendoza noticed that his wounded arm remained stiffly by his side, and he suspected that his cousin had aggravated his wound during the night's preparations. The Moriscos now took up their positions in a line behind the trench, and Martín and two harquebusiers crouched down near the barricade. Behind them they heard the sound of shooting coming from the direction of the ravine. Some of the Moriscos peered around nervously, and Ventura told them to keep looking downward as the bandits and
montañeses
drew closer. The front ranks were mounted on horses, mules and donkeys, and some horsemen were riding back and forth on either side of the columns in an attempt to coordinate their movements and keep them in some kind of order.

Soon the front of the column reached the point where the road began to climb upward, and the horsemen disappeared. They appeared a few minutes later at the brow of the hill, followed by a churning sea of armed fighters wearing an assortment of head scarves, morions, leather doublets and metal breastplates. Some wore white tunics with red crosses. Others were barefoot and wore clothes made from animal skins. They continued to
swarm over the hill, spilling off the road and brandishing their weapons as they yelled insults and threats.

“Morisco dogs!”

“Heretics!”

“Murderers!”

One of the horsemen raised his sword above his head, and the noise immediately subsided.

“For Spain and Saint James!” he yelled. The ragged army of bandits, shepherds and would-be Crusaders echoed back the refrain that Mendoza himself had shouted in very different circumstances, and then the sword fell downward. With a great roar, the soldiers and horsemen came charging toward them.

Martín fired three times, his companion fired twice, and five bodies fell before the first wave of men and horses crashed into the cheval-de-frise. Ventura and the Moriscos surged forward, stabbing, slashing and jabbing at them with the swords and stakes while others fired crossbows down from the roofs of the outlying buildings. For the first time in thirteen years, Mendoza heard the sounds of battle as the street echoed with the crack of pistol shots, clashing swords, the wild neighing of horses and the grunts and curses of fighting men.

The Moriscos fought with furious desperation as the horsemen fired at them and the bandits and
montañeses
swarmed over the barricade. Mendoza saw one Morisco die from a pistol shot and another from a sword thrust to the throat, while yet another let out a terrible scream as a halberd swept down and nearly cleaved his arm at the shoulder. One bandit was pulled down onto a stake. Others screamed as they fell under the horses' hooves or were trampled by their companions. Despite the Moriscos' tenacious resistance, their line of defense began to bulge almost immediately from the sheer weight of numbers as the foot soldiers clambered over the barricades while the horsemen fired with pistols down at the defenders.

Within minutes it was difficult to determine where one side ended and
another began as the bandits pushed their way in through the slender gap between the washroom and the opposite wall. Mendoza stood at the
lavadero
with Necker's spare pistol and calmly shot one of the horsemen. He quickly reloaded, but there was no time to fire another shot as the Moriscos dropped back and the bandits poured through the gap. He clipped the pistol onto his belt and ran out into the street with his sword in one hand and his stick in the other, pushing and shoving the Moriscos and shouting at them to turn and face the enemy and line up their weapons in a semblance of order as the bandits dragged the barricades and the horses pushed their way in through the narrow funnel, and the crush of bodies continued to push them inexorably backward.

•   •   •

O
VER
BY
THE
VILLAGE
WALL
, a very different battle was unfolding as the bandits and
montañeses
scrambled up the path and terraces, taking shelter behind the olive and apple trees or ducking beneath the terraces as the Moriscos fired pistols and crossbows and hurled rocks and stones down upon them. Necker raced back and forth between the cemetery and the lower wall, encouraging, cajoling and bullying the defenders and pointing out targets and gaps to be filled. He had positioned his two harquebusiers and five pistoleers at the point where the cemetery wall curved up and overlooked the terraces, so that they could fire at a downward angle into them.

From this distance it was difficult to miss, but there were so many attackers swarming up the terraces that they kept on coming even as their dead and wounded comrades fell in front of them. Some of them were carrying ladders, and others took up positions behind the trees and fired back at the Moriscos, forcing them to duck behind the walls. The shooting was also coming from behind them. One woman was shot down as she ran toward the wall from the cemetery, and Necker saw the harquebusiers firing at them from the cliff overlooking the town.