The Errant Flock (12 page)

“Eduardo, Alma, you have my oath,” David said. “We won’t stop looking. We’re searching as far and as wide as we can. Every soldier in Sagrat wants justice for you. We’re using all our resources. We’ll give up our night’s rest to hunt these monsters, if that’s what it takes.” David hoped his words would appease them; however, he was sadly mistaken.

“This house is evil now,” Eduardo said. “Nothing good will come of you living here. Best you move out and leave it to the devil.” With this parting shot, Eduardo took Alma by the arm and left.

David felt his lungs being crushed by guilt.

Juan sat back down on the bed and held Isa in his arms.

Chapter Twenty-One

David picked his way through the streets, feeling a bit better now that he’d seen his parents. At the distant sound of thunder, he looked up and saw that the sky had darkened further. From his position halfway up the hill, he could just about make out the sea in the distance; above it, a sheet of black clouds was sweeping across the heavens and heading towards the town. They would see a good downpour at last, he thought.

As he turned a corner, a biting wind whipped back his cloak. Grabbing its edges, he pulled it tighter across his chest and was immediately reminded of the young Jewish woman he had escorted to prison the previous day. She’d be freezing in that cell. Some of the prisoners incarcerated during the winter months died of the cold. No visitors were allowed, and basic items, such as blankets or combs to untangle hair, were denied. Comforts such as hot broth and freshly cooked meat never reached the incarcerated, unless they were wealthy and could pay for those privileges.

              The Jew, Sinfa, had left him with an ugly feeling of shame. Garcia had struck her as though she were a mule that needed to be beaten when stubborn. Yet neither he nor any other soldier present had found the courage to stop the treasurer. The young woman had courage, David thought. She’d bravely stood up to Garcia, with chin jutting out in prideful defiance and her mouth full of protests. She’d been humiliated and scorned just moments after burying her only family. She’d lost everything in that house, yet she had looked almost regal.

He felt as though they shared a strange alliance. Her grandfather and Juanjo had both been victims of the same crime, perpetrated by the very men the townspeople were supposed to look up to. The duke would more than likely leave Sinfa Cabrera to rot inside those freezing walls, for he would not want to be reminded of her again. Garcia would make sure she was severely punished for her outburst against him. She had called him a coward. God help her, for he supposed that would be unforgivable in Garcia’s mind.

Walking along one of the wider streets, David spotted a mule and cart. It stopped outside a house. He caught up with it, paying no heed to the driver, who was piddling up a wall. But then the man turned and climbed up into the driver’s seat. David saw his face. His mood darkened once again. Striding angrily towards the cart just as the man was about to drive away, David caught hold of the mule’s reins. Seething, he said, “Remember me, you thieving bastard?”

There was no recognition in the man’s expression, but David was still convinced that it was him. “You took my boar and left my family with nothing to eat, you spawn of a whore!”

The cart driver’s face turned bright red, but even under David’s intense scrutiny, he refused to admit his guilt. Instead, he seemed deeply offended at the very suggestion.

“Get lost. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never stole anything from anyone,” the man grunted angrily.

Flashes of David’s mother’s meagre table with nothing but bread, cheese, and two wrinkled potatoes came to mind.

“Get down from there before I drag you off your high-and-mighty position and set you on your arse. Down – now!”

“Look here, soldier. I don’t know you. I’ve never eaten a wild boar in my miserable life. If only me and my motherless children were so lucky.”

For a second, David wondered if he had made a mistake. Then the man smirked and David remembered the same toothless, rotting gums of the man who’d sped away with the boar in the back of his cart. His rage came upon him from nowhere, and his self-disgust rose to the surface.

Gripping the driver’s breeches, he pulled them with such force that the man tumbled off the cart and onto the ground. David reached down and picked the thief up by the tunic collar. He was so enraged that he smashed his head into the man’s face. As he recovered, he stood back and was satisfied to see the man’s bloodied lips.

Pulling the man towards him until their noses were almost touching, he then threw the thief against the side of the cart’s straw wall and threatened through bared teeth, “Don’t lie to me. I know it was you.”

“Get your hands off me. I don’t know you!” the man insisted.

David’s fisted punch broke the man’s nose on contact. The thief moaned as blood poured from both of his nostrils.

Without hesitating, David clenched his fists again and swung a crippling blow to the man’s belly, and then another to the face. The cart driver bent over double and gasped for air, and then he straightened his body and swung his arms up to cover his face with his hands. “Don’t … don’t hit me again,” he cried like a squealing piglet.

David heard the man mumbling through his swollen lips, but all he could think about was the boar. There just might be some left. His mother and father could do with a piece of meat or even unpicked bones to make broth. “Where is it? Where’s the beast?”

Panting with breathlessness, the man stuttered, “I-inside me … Nothing left of it. You won’t get it back … unless you eat my shit.”

David felt an overwhelming urge to hit the man repeatedly, but he suddenly became aware of the commotion behind him. Turning, he noticed the crowd of people encircling him. He faced the thief, who was clinging on to the side of the cart for dear life, and hit him again, this time across the top of the head.

“If I ever see you near the barracks again, you’ll find yourself in prison with your hands cut off,” he said. “I hope the meat putrefies inside your belly and your arse shoots fire!”

“Give me your name, you bastard. I want your name,” the thief shouted, gripping his sore belly.

A woman standing with her arms crossed and looking furious said to the thief, “I know who he is, Moniño. I know his mother. His name is Sanz.” And then she wagged her finger in David’s face. “You’re a big bully. Go pick on someone your own size,” she said.

“I’ll get you back for this,
soldado
!
I’ll remember your name – you see if I don’t!” David heard the thief shout.

Walking up a steep incline, David laboured to catch his breath. He hadn’t slept properly for days. He was tired, yet his body radiated with energy. He wiped the sweat off his face and strode on until a thunderous noise stopped him in his tracks just as he reached the final bend before the prison. Feeling as though the ground were moving beneath his feet, he turned and gasped at what he saw. Coming up the road behind him was a procession of horses, mules, men-at-arms, carriages, a golden cross as tall as a house, and the Inquisition’s seal of cross, branch, and sword imprinted on flags. The inquisitor had arrived.

Chapter Twenty-Two

The inquisitor, Gaspar de Amo, arrived in Sagrat with all the pomp and ceremony of a monarch. Accompanying him were scribes, a theological assessor, public prosecutor, a civilian guard who policed the legal proceedings, a receiver dealing with confiscated goods, a magistrate responsible for administering sequestered properties, a messenger, and a physician.

           Inquisition volunteers were also in the entourage, swelling the inquisitor’s ostentatious convoy further. These included representatives of ordinary civil jurisdiction, consultants, a torturer, and familiars
,
who were an armed troop of twenty men, and Gaspar de Amo’s protection against would-be assassins.

Being elected to one of the five royal councils which followed the Holy Office had allowed the inquisitor immense power and latitude in all decisions concerning Inquisition arrests, preparations for judgement cases, and verdicts. The old Inquisition, which had lasted almost two hundred years, was all but obsolete in Aragon. Under the control of bishops with little zeal, it had run its course and depleted its resources. The inquisitor believed, however, that this new Inquisition age, encompassing both Castile and Aragon, was one that would succeed beyond expectations and last for a thousand years.

In the past few years, an uncomfortable and at times confrontational debate had simmered between Pope Sixtus IV and the Spanish monarchs. After nine years, De Amo could still recite every word written in a papal letter to the Spanish bishops. It had been blatantly insulting:

In Aragon, Valencia, Mallorca, and Cataluña, the Inquisition has for some time been moved not by zeal for the faith and the salvation of souls but by lust for wealth. Many true and faithful Christians, on the testimony of enemies, rivals, slaves, and other lower and even less proper persons, have without any legitimate proof been thrust into secular prisons, tortured and condemned as relapsed heretics. They have been deprived of their goods and property and handed over to the secular arm to be executed, setting a pernicious example and causing disgust to many.

Nonsense,
De Amo thought now, just as he’d thought nine years ago. Rome had wielded too much power over the Spanish sovereigns, and he’d worked tirelessly on King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella’s behalf to shift the Inquisition’s authority over to them. He was satisfied with his efforts and of his years of devotion, for after trials of strength with the papacy, the advantage finally turned to the Spanish monarchs.

The defence of the faith and the battle against heresy were now the responsibility of the court, with powers delegated by the papacy but answerable to the civil authority, which appointed its magistrates. The inquisitor strongly believed that Valencia would be a blessed quest to fulfil the dreams of many, for with God’s good grace, it would be united in faith and worship. No longer would its territories have to endure the evils of Judaism in silence, and Jews would never again corrupt the minds and souls of weak Christian converts. Soon their dwindling number would be thrown out of Spain for good.

In the past two years, he had rounded up and imprisoned hundreds of suspected heretics. He had executed ten, or was it twele? Many had told him that his work ethics were excellent. His prisons in Zaragoza and in the city of Valencia were full. He’d augmented revenues for the Inquisition by arresting persons of high standing and thus had been able to sequestrate enough of the detainee’s possessions to pay for their upkeep and food. That was not lust for wealth, as the pope had stated; it was just good business.

A short time ago, he had tried a man for heresy and had found him guilty. He would always remember that particular interrogation, for under torture the accused had admitted to declaring in public meetings that the Inquisition fathers were carrying out their trials and executions on rich people as much for taking property and money as for defending the faith. He’d also said that the goods were the heretics, not the men and women so charged. The impudent bastard would spend the rest of his life in prison for those heretic statements!

Looking out his carriage window and seeing Sagrat’s castle for the first time, he thought about the imprisoned errant flock of heretics and Judaists spread across a hundred leagues and determined that every decision he’d made thus far had been the right one. It had taken him a long time to obtain Thomas de Torquemada’s permission to hold an auto-de-fé, Spain’s biggest public display of faith. Sagrat, he thought, would be the perfect town to put on such a solemn occasion.

He ran his fingers across his rosary beads and began to pray. He was not clergy, and he had not taken holy orders, yet prayer brought him clarity and comfort. Every day he fought the elation of pride and the sin of vanity. He was, he kept reminding himself, an instrument of Rome and her Catholic teachings, which of course deserved all the glory. But even so, what harm could it do to recognise that he had done a truly magnificent job in bringing poor misguided souls back to the Catholic Church? Soon the people would witness his good works for themselves, and they would see that a heretic could travel only two paths: one to redemption and the other to the fire.

From inside the carriage, he watched his familiars roughly manhandling the townspeople off the thoroughfare. The onlookers’ faces, which were filled with curiosity, amused him, for he knew that their initial interest in his cavalcade would turn to fear. He had witnessed this in every town and city he’d been to. He doubted these people had ever seen the full force of an Inquisition’s power in their lifetime. The old duke of Sagrat had managed to hold the Holy Office at bay, but only because he had generously ploughed the king and queen with money and bribes. Soon, these people would take measures to hide their heresy, just as the people of Zaragosa and Cataluña had. But they would be unsuccessful.

This town, with more Jews than any other in Valencia, was rife with contaminated Christians and those who feigned devotion to the one true faith. But he would catch them all out because his job was to instil fear and surprise in the faithful, and he was very good at it.

Coming to the kingdom of Aragon had not been an easy decision for him to make. He was well aware of the long-standing hatred between inquisitors, noblemen, and aristocrats. There was not a man in Spain who had not heard about the inquisitor who’d been murdered in Saragoza. He felt sick thinking about the sainted man who had died at the hands of heretic bastards. Cannon Pedro Arbués was a martyr. He had gone to Teruél, a town high in the mountains, to save souls, and upon his arrival, the municipal magistrates had forced him to leave the town. The municipality was excommunicated from the church for their insolence, of course, but
he
would have taken matters much further than Arbués had he been the inquisitor.

Teruel should have been a warning of what was to come for the canon, but even if he had heeded the threat of plots against him, he would still have continued with his sacred duty, thus was his devotion to the Holy Office.

Six years had passed since Pedro Arbués’s death. Before his brutal murder, he had survived two assassination attempts. He’d even worn armour and a helmet in an effort to protect himself. Unfortunately, the paid assassins knew this, and when they struck him with a dagger, it was with perfect precision, just below the helmet and above the collar.
What better way is there to show God love than being slaughtered whilst kneeling in prayer to Him?
De Amo thought.

A surge of resentment rose. It hardly seemed fair that the grand inquisitor, Torquemada, had 250 men-at-arms to protect him and he had but 20.

Making sure his armour was properly secured, the inquisitor pushed his helmet down until it completely covered his neck. He too was forced to wear a chain mail vest and iron helmet hidden beneath his hooded cloak. There was no shame in taking precautions, he continually told himself. And once he got everything under control he would have no need of such attire...The people of Valencia would have a rude awakening soon, for he had no intention of taking a soft approach or dying at the hands of Judaists or noblemen who were still stirring up trouble in this region.