The Errant Flock (14 page)

Chapter Twenty-Five

Garcia stood with hands on hips and glared at Tur in a challenge of wills. Tur threw Garcia a thunderous look and then raised his harsh-toned voice. “What you are asking is out of the question,” he said.

Garcia was livid. He would have liked to strike the bastard and wipe the insolence off his mouth. But Tur was a consummate swordsman, a hard man who did not take kindly to having fun poked at him or orders thrown at him by anyone but the duke. A corpulent man, his head seemed far too big for his body, and his ruddy face and coarse brown hair that fell about his ears made him look like a rough mountain goat herder. He was probably the only man in this town that Peráto would call indispensable. He would have to be handled very carefully.

“I don’t have time to stand here debating with you, Captain,” Garcia said. “Give me the horse and prison cart or I’ll report you to the duke for your impertinence.”

“You say the duke knows about this?”

“Of course he does. Why else would I be here?”

Still looking unhappy, Tur expelled a heavy sigh. “Then I should send my men with you. Surely you’re not thinking of detaining the suspects on your own? You need the cavalry. This is what they’ve been trained for.”

The last thing I need is the militia by my side,
Garcia thought. He could just picture the scene and what he would say to the soldiers when he found random victims foolish enough to be wandering about in the dark: “Arrest these men … They are completely innocent, but they look as though they will confess to murders, abduction, and mayhem at the drop of a hat.”

“If I had any need of your men, I would have asked for them,” he told Tur with a slightly calmer voice. “The suspects are being held at the port by people the duke trusts. He wants this handled quietly. The inquisitor has just arrived, and the duke doesn’t think it fitting to interrupt his papal mission with the thunder of hooves galloping down the hill after murderers. The scum will not be dragged into town in chains, escorted by your cavalry and knights … and you will speak to no one about this until I return. Do you understand me, Captain?”

“Yes, I understand, Your Honour.”

Garcia climbed onto the prison cart, much like any other cart that trundled through the streets but with a wooden roof and bars on each side and back. Glaring once more at Tur, he said, “Just make sure you’re here when I return with the suspects. You can have your moment of glory then. I’ll hand them over to you. You can escort them to the prison, and afterwards you will tell your men to spread the word to every house and hovel in this town. Don’t disappoint me, Captain.” He slapped the reins and drove off.

Still muttering angrily under his breath, Garcia cleared the last of the streets and headed onto the open plain in a northward direction. He was furious. The duke’s foolish and inconvenient plan to hold a public execution to appease the townspeople was the whim of an overindulged and naive nobleman who was too stupid to realise that he was putting his own aristocratic arse in danger by pursuing this matter.

Garcia had asked Peráto one simple question before he’d left: “How will I convince the militia and the town council that I was able to find, overpower, and incarcerate murderers on my own?” The bastard had answered, “This isn’t my problem. It’s your problem.”

Garcia looked skyward. Fast-moving black clouds filled the heavens, whipping up a strong wind which caused the rain to fall in horizontal sheets. He bowed his head against the cold torrent of water and pulled the top of his hood down onto his chin. “May God damn you to hell, Peráto. Looking for men to burn in your town square is a waste of my valuable time,” he mumbled under his breath.

After travelling half a league to the north of Sagrat, Garcia jumped down and led the mule and cart up an incline. When he got to the top, he once again took the reins and drove the cart as fast as he could, finally reaching a rocky plain heading inland towards the mountains.

Halting, he tied the horse’s reins to the wooden shaft at the side of the cart and walked towards a crevice. Stopping just before he reached it, he cast his eyes over the area. He lifted his arm and waved it in the air. Men were watching him. They were probably hiding behind rocks on the higher ground in front of him and inside one of the many deep cracks in the ground, running like veins.

The mercenaries’ leader, Alejandro, had chosen a good hideout, he thought. The terrain was wild and virginal, as though man had never claimed it or tamed it. The rocky valley leading to the base of the mountains inland was overgrown with prickly cacti, tall grass hiding deep potholes that could swallow a horse and rider, and shallow hills that were like gentle waves, obscuring the inland pathway he had just taken.

Cautiously walking through waist-high weeds and taking care not to kick or trip over hidden rocks on the ground, he eventually reached the crevice he was looking for. He raised his hands in the air again for good measure and called out his name. “Sergio Garcia. I’m here to see Alejandro!” This was the third time he’d come here, and he hated this part the most. Some of the mercenaries knew him, but there was always the chance that one of them could get trigger-happy and fire a longbow dart without asking questions first.

A man’s face appeared at the crevice’s lip. He held a crossbow pointed at Garcia’s head.

Looking at the arrow’s tip, Garcia forgot his fear and said impatiently, “It’s me, you fools. Didn’t you hear me shout?”

The crevice was shoulder deep and about three feet wide. Holding on to the banks, Garcia jumped into the centre of the crack, and sidled awkwardly to an opening farther along. He looked down at a hole, which was just wide enough to allow an average man’s body to slip through it, and sighed with relief when he saw a rope ladder attached to a large rock. Good, he thought, at least there was a proper ladder in place. The last time he’d been here, all he had to grab on to was a rope.

Garcia was not afraid of Alejandro, but he was mindful of the marauder’s hardened criminal mind and penchant towards violence. Alejandro could never be fully trusted, Garcia had remarked to Peráto when the duke asked him what he thought of the thief. But he did seem to be a strong leader, and he had a reputation amongst his men for being fair when sharing bounties.

A man stood at the bottom of the ladder. He nodded in recognition but said nothing to Garcia. Both men walked a few paces until they reached a low-hanging rock. Garcia got onto his knees, grunted with disgust, and then followed the mercenary. The narrow low narrow ceiling cavern was the most awkward part of the caves to manoeuvre. The iron cold rocky ground underneath Garcia dug into his thin hose, ripping them at the knees and cutting his skin. He could feel every stone, hard and unyielding, bruising his legs and palms. His grunt of displeasure was audible. How anyone could live like this, he’d never know. These men earned a decent living stealing from others, yet they chose to live like animals underneath the ground. What was the point of having coin if not to use it whoring, drinking, and living comfortably in a fine home? Garcia had always wondered.

The man finally spoke. “Alejandro is up ahead. He wasn’t expecting you.”

So what?
Garcia thought. He had money for Alejandro. He didn’t need an invitation. “Just hurry up. I’ve got an urgent job for him,” he told the man.

At the end of the tunnel, a large opening appeared. The moment he entered the high-ceilinged cave, Garcia heard the sound of running water coursing down the rocks. It had been a while since rain had soaked these walls, he thought. Only once before had he seen the reservoir fill with such a tide of water. No one knew how deep the underground lake was, for no man had ever touched the bottom of it with his feet. It was ironic, he thought. All this fresh water lay under the ground, yet Sagrat had suffered a drought. Shame the people didn’t know of its existence.

A boat was anchored at each end of the waterway. Garcia got into one of them and sat down, looked at his bloodied legs, and grumbled to himself. As the man rowed, he went over his plan again. On a wet day like this, there would be a greater chance of finding drunks and vagabonds at the coast than anywhere else he could think of. It was already mid-afternoon and would be dark within three hours. They would strike when darkness fell. He cursed the rain again. He couldn’t go back to Sagrat empty-handed, but it wasn’t going to be easy finding victims when everyone was probably scurrying for shelter under roofs.

After getting off the boat, Garcia had to climb a small incline before reaching the entrance to the largest cavern. Inside, oil-lit torches and soft glowing campfires sat on shiny flat rocks which looked as though they had been polished. Around him, shadows stole across the walls, nebulous and eerily unfamiliar. Scattered throughout the cave were conical pillars rising up from the floor, and above his head, other pillars reached down from the ceiling like long arms fused into the stone.

He blinked, adjusting his eyes to the brighter light, and then he scanned the enormous space, big enough to fit more than one hundred grown men. He walked past two men sitting by a campfire, and they nodded to him in recognition.

“Where’s Alejandro?” Garcia asked.

“Walk on. He’s in the next cavern,” the man told him.

Nodding his thanks, Garcia took a step, and then he stopped with a thought that had just come crashing into his mind. He could order Alejandro to perform, not one, but two tasks. The duke and Alejandro didn’t know each other, and they would never meet. This was the perfect time to deal with another problem that was plaguing him, and Peráto would never have to know anything about it …

Chapter Twenty-Six

In the port of Sagrat, Diego Sanz huddled beneath an awning dipping in the middle with the weight of rainwater. What in God’s name was he doing here? he asked himself for the umpteenth time that day. He should be in the city of Valencia by now, sitting in front of a fire in a taverna, heating his bones with a rich wine, a bowl of fish broth in front of him. He would have found work within hours of arriving in the city, for the only thing he’d heard people talk about in the past few days was how important Valencia had become.

People’s lives were going to change for the better in this new era of commerce and discovery, they had all agreed. King Ferdinand had granted licence to Valencia’s first real port only this year, turning the city into a busy trade centre. There were rumours of great construction sites being built at the edge of the sea to house ships undergoing reparations. He’d also heard that there were plans to build an entirely new fleet of vessels which would be sturdy enough to sail to the other side of the world.

He could have boarded one of the many ships at anchor. He would have accepted even the lowliest of jobs. He wasn’t daunted by tales of sickness in the galleys, where men rowed until they dropped like flies. A life at sea was what he wanted and what he would have eventually.

Looking about him, he realized what a small and insignificant place this was compared to Valencia. Sagrat’s port was nothing more than a fishing enclave holding a dozen or so small vessels that fished the waters between the mainland and the island of Mallorca, to the east. The boats were not suited to deep open waters and tended to cast their nets no farther than two leagues from the shore. It held no mysteries or adventures. It had nothing to offer other than a scattering of houses bordering the shoreline. Made of wood and stone, they were sturdier than the houses in the town and housed families who earned their living catching and selling fish, lobster, prawns, oysters, mussels, and eels to neighbouring towns, specifically Sagrat and its castle.

Fishermen here had laughed at him when he’d asked for a job. These men had fished all their lives and been forced to give up their boats because of a drop in demand. “It’s the monarchy’s fault,” a man he’d met earlier this day had stated. “The kings are to blame for our hardships. They’ve scared most of the Jews away, and they were our biggest customers. They give Valencia money to enhance its port, but they forget about us poor fishermen. Our old boats are no match for the bigger vessels in the city. They can get to deeper waters and haul as much in a day as we can in a week. We’ll be lucky if there’re any fish left around here soon … or customers to buy them.”

Diego wiped his wet face and grumbled. There was no real shelter here. The wind was picking up, and the rain was lashing down and hitting him from all angles. He looked out to the thunderous sea. Lines of tall waves with white crests visible even under a black sky were coming ashore one after the other and crashing noisily against the stony banks. White salty sea foam, spraying into the air like giant snowflakes, settled on the ground for just a moment and were then dispersed by rainwater. Boats were being pummelled against rocks, and they made loud snapping noises as timbers split and broke. This was one of the worst storms he’d seen in years. Some of the boats would be lucky to remain afloat.

Standing up, he wrung the water out of his robe’s hemline. Thank God he’d found that convent, he thought. The nuns had saved the little girl and had rescued him as well. At the time, he’d not been too keen on wearing monk’s attire, but the robes had given him a decent covering for his head and body and had probably stopped him from freezing to death in his night tunic. Diego would never forget the sisters’ kindness or their shocked faces after he’d begged them to take the small child crying in his arms.

It was rare for a parent to abandon a child. Children were precious to the Valencian people, who would rather starve themselves than see their sons and daughters want for anything. At first, the sisters had been reluctant to take her in, but they’d relented after he’d spun a heartbreaking tale about the death of his young wife, no other family to help him, and his inability to care for a daughter because he had no work.
I’ll come back for her within a period of four weeks
, he’d told them, knowing he probably never would.

Diego walked into the taverna, stood just inside the door, and looked about him. Stepping aside, he let three men pass him on their way out, nodding to one of them. Disappointing, he thought. He knew that man. He might have been kind enough to offer him a pitcher of ale. He pulled his soaking wet hood off his head, closed his eyes for a second, and bathed in the lavish heat emanating from a blazing hearth fire. The smell of freshly cooked meat gave him a heady feeling. He shifted awkwardly from one foot to another, sniffing the air like a dog, and followed the path of a platter of pork and potatoes being served by a wench.

At last, his eyes found Javier Ubeda, a fisherman Diego had known since boyhood. Grinning with pleasure, he called out and walked towards Javier’s table, laden with bread, cheese, a carafe of wine, and a fine joint of kid meat.

Javier sat with a friend who seemed to eye Diego’s robe with both curiosity and humour. “You’re not a monk, are you? Where’s your bald patch?” he asked, pointing to the crown of his head.

“A monk! Who, this strapping lad?” Javier said. “Rafael, this is Juan Sanz’s son Diego. They’ve got a farm on the plain. I’ve known his father for years. Diego here wants to be a fisherman. Isn’t that right, lad?”

“I do, now more than ever. Our farm got burnt by marauders a few days past,” Diego told him. “Juanjo was killed.”

“So it was
your
brother?”

“He died trying to save our mule,” Diego said in a cracked voice. “We never did find that cursed animal.”

“We heard about the fires and that a boy was killed. You have my condolences,” Javier said.

Nodding his thanks, Diego said, “I suppose you heard about that family in Sagrat too?”

“We did, and there’s not a person who’s been able to find rest since it happened. It’s not right, I tell you. People are scared to go to sleep without putting daggers under their pillows. Imagine an entire family being wiped out on the same night. They’ll never find those babies. No, they’ll be dead and buried or long gone from here by now. It’s a sad time we’re living in.”

“We’re living in dangerous times,” Rafael added, “and the king doesn’t seem to care. He’s too busy conquering Granada from the moors with his Castilian wife to worry about us poor
Valencianos
and our troubles.”

“What’s the duke doing about those murders in the town, lad?” Javier asked Diego. “I heard he sent the militia out and they returned with not so much as a whiff of the culprits. He needs to do more. His soldiers are no good to man or beast, if you ask me. All they seem interested in doing lately is arresting people for no good reason. They should be defending the likes of us, for we can’t defend ourselves.”

“I’m sure they’re doing all they can,” Diego answered lamely. “David’s in the militia now. Did you know that?”

“Your elder brother?”

Diego nodded.

“Well, tell him from me that the people here are scared. Did you hear about one of our carts being robbed?”

“No.”

“It was robbed of its fish – bastards! Fish! Only the foulest turds of the lowest scum would do something like that. It happened the morning after those terrible murders.” He gestured to Rafael. “We think the thieving swine are local. Don’t we?”

“Got to be,” Rafael agreed. “The attacks are becoming more and more frequent, and the robbers seem to know exactly where and when to strike. They’re not pirates. We would know if they were. We don’t take our eyes off the sea. If a tick on a fly’s back floated in, we’d see it … My deepest condolences, lad. Your parents must be devastated, losing a son like that. Here, eat with us. Warm your bones.”

Diego’s eyes brightened. His belly rumbled at the thought of food coming his way. “I think I will,” he said.