The Errant Flock (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The taverna’s door burst open and banged loudly against the wall with a gust of wind. Antonio Marsal, a local man, staggered inside like a drunk, with glassy eyes and his tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth with exhaustion. His hands, pressing against his belly, were covered in blood and rainwater, colouring them pink. His ripped tunic looked as though a wolf had mauled it. His hair, bloodied and matted, dripped rose-coloured water onto his face, which was creased with pain, and into his wild, feverish eyes.

Not looking at anyone in particular, he moaned words like a Latin hymn and made no sense at all, until finally he managed to utter a few brief sentences. “I’m dying … Help me … God, help me!”

Many of the revellers were already on their feet. Some were shouting questions, others rushed towards him, and there were those who seemed to be rooted to their seats in violent shock.

“They took them … Stop them … Get them back!” His outstretched bloodied hands grasped the shoulders of the first man to reach him, and then his legs buckled.

“Lay him down!” someone shouted.

“Who are
them
?” another asked.

“Please save them … Outside … You have to save them. Marauders.” Antonio’s hoarse voice was almost inaudible.

Diego watched the commotion and listened to the enraged voices soar with questions: Everyone wanted to know who did this to Antonio. Finally, a man whispered into Antonio’s ear and then put his own ear to Antonio’s lips.

“The port has been attacked! It’s the marauders! They’ve got Miguel and Ignacio!” the man who’d just spoken to Antonio shouted. “They’re at the back of the tavern!”

Javier, running towards the door, yelled over his shoulder, “Well, what are you all waiting for? The whoresons are not getting away with this!”

Rafael and Diego joined the group of men heading for the door. Outside, they saw nothing but sheets of rain and mist coming in from the sea, but as the group strode farther along the street towards the corner of the building, a militia prisoner cart came into view. Striding towards it, they heard a faint high-pitched scream and horses whinnying, above the noise of rain battering the ground.

The men from the taverna broke into a run. Diego surged onwards with the group until those at the front halted abruptly. From his position near the front, he could make out two men being dragged by their underarms onto the back of a cart by two cloaked men whose faces were hidden beneath masks of linen cloth. Then two riders brandishing swords appeared from nowhere. Their horses, panicking at the sudden appearance of the crowd, reared up. One of the riders lost his grip on the reins, and the horse, upon feeling itself free, struck out with its forelegs and then pounded the ground with its hooves.

“Let them go, you bastards!” a man from the taverna screamed at the abductors.

Some of the men picked up stones that were scattered on the ground, and others advanced on the cart, getting within arm’s reach of the horsemen.

Undaunted by the crowd of men, the riders moved forward, slashing the air with their swords and panicking their horses even more by sawing harshly at the animals’ mouths.

“If any one of you throws a stone and so much as grazes me, you’ll find your guts cut out and your entrails lying on the ground!” one of the horsemen hissed loudly. “These men are being arrested on the duke’s orders for the recent murders in Sagrat!”

The group’s collective courage disintegrated at the mention of the duke’s name, and instead of advancing, they halted abruptly and then retreated in fear.

Diego pushed his way to the front, enraged at the attack he was witnessing so soon after his brother had been killed. For the first time, he got a good look at the riders’ faces. Staring at one of them, his jaw dropped. He recognised the man … He’d know that scarred face anywhere.

“They’re not militia! They’re marauders!” he shouted over his shoulder. Turning to the crowd behind him, he yelled. “The whoreson is lying! Come on!”

Diego couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The men from the taverna were standing like statues, allowing their friends to be abducted by criminals. He was baffled, for in his mind, if all of them moved forward together, they would be able to pull the riders to the ground, disarm them, and then get the prisoners to safety.

“Are you going to let them get away with this?” he shouted again. “Your friends are innocent! If you let these bastards leave here, you’ll never see Miguel or Ignacio again!”

Amidst the chaos, the two cloaked men inside the cart’s cage had managed to secure their prisoners and reach the driver’s bench.

Miguel and Ignacio lay on the cart’s floor and were strangely silent.

The scarred marauder sneered at the crowd and then cackled loudly just before he gave the order to the cart driver to move along.

Javier joined Diego at the front of the line. “What are you, a bunch of old wives?” he shouted at the other men. “They’re getting away. For God’s sake, we have to stop them!” From somewhere in the crowd, a stone was thrown. It hit the scar-faced man on the shoulder, and some of the men in the crowd gasped when he urged his horse towards them.

“I’ll rip your bellies open if you hit me again. Take another step forward and it will be your road to hell!” he cursed, with his sword in the air.

The cart, having been stuck for a moment in a mud puddle, managed to move at a sloth’s pace until it picked up speed on the road leading out of the port. The feeble-looking group dropped their stones and watched the cart’s fading torches dimming with each turn of the wheel, and as the reality of the situation struck the men, they began to trade insults. Diego listened. Their condemnation of each other seemed to be an attempt to cover their own guilt, he thought, feeling ashamed.

“There were fifteen of us for God’s sake. We should have stopped them,” one man accused the rest of them.

“Stopped them with what … stones? They had swords. Or were you too busy hiding at the back to notice the blades pointed at us?” another retorted.

“That cart bore the duke’s crest, and that’s a fact. If we had seized Miguel and Ignacio, we’d all be hanged for treason before the week was out. Did anyone think about that?” another man asked.

“You’re all a bunch of goat shaggers,” an elderly man said, obviously disgusted. He then went home.

Back inside the taverna, Diego tried to hear what was being said above the noise of what seemed like a hundred angry men screeching like wives, all at the same time.

“In the name of God Almighty, shut up! Let Antonio speak before he takes his last breath!” Javier ordered.

Antonio lay with his head on a man’s lap. His grey pallor and bluish tinged lips left no doubt that he’d be gone within minutes.

“They were just sitting there waiting for us to come out. They grabbed the three of us. The cart had the duke’s seal.”

“We know. We saw it, Antonio,” Javier said.

“Miguel and Ignacio … didn’t stand a chance. They were in front of me. I tried to fight one of the bastards off, but he got me with his sword … I ran.”

“You did well, my friend,” said Javier.

“Did you save them?”

“No, we were too late.”

“I’m dying. Get me a priest!” Antonio, coughing up blood, weakly gripped Javier’s hand, and whimpered. “Oh God, I’m not ready.”

The voices grew louder again. Javier raised his hand and silenced them. He looked again at Antonio’s gaping wound. “You’re dying all right. Someone, go get the priest!” he shouted without looking up. “Antonio, if he doesn’t come in time, confess your sins directly to God. That should be enough. We won’t listen.”

Shortly after, Antonio died.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The prisoner inside the cell was slumped against the wall as though he’d not moved since being thrown there. David lifted his torch to get a better look at the man, who raised his arm and shielded his eyes from the sudden burst of brightness. The suspect was elderly, feeble with age and skin hanging over raised bones. His tunic, in rags, hung loosely on his frame, barely covering his ribs, looking like waves on his chest. His bald head was lined with deep gashes. Dried blood stained his skin, and the first sign of yellow pus seeping from the wounds was already visible.

The man’s frailty should leave no sensible person in doubt of his innocence, David thought, for he was not physically capable of carrying out the crimes he’d been accused of. The duke probably wouldn’t care about such details, however. The people demanded justice for the young family’s killers, and Peráto, it seemed, was determined to give it to them by the foulest of means. Unless God granted a miracle, the poor creature in the cell would be sentenced as quickly as the law allowed and, along with his companion, who was locked up farther down the passageway, would be brutally executed in a grand public exhibition.

When the men had been brought in, both had borne the marks of heavy fists on their bodies. Broken jaws, eyes swollen tightly shut, and plumped-up lips had given their faces a grotesque appearance. The bones in their cheeks were shattered. They would not be able to utter a word in their own defence, such was the extent of their injuries. This was not the work of the militia, David thought. It was not their way to beat up suspects … The men had been deliberately and viciously silenced.

He thought back to the previous night. Captain Tur and two other militiamen had brought the prisoners in. After they’d been locked up, Tur had deposited the arrest warrants, signed by the duke. He’d said very little about the men’s capture, but before leaving, he’d been emphatic in his condemnation. “These are the murdering turds who killed an entire family and your brother, Sanz. Never have I arrested such repugnant scum.”

David’s thoughts were grim. He was the repugnant scum, not the broken man he was looking at. He didn’t want to serve in the militia anymore. He’d sooner kill the duke than serve him. His dreams had been soured and his ambitions sunk in a sea of guilt.

From within the passageway’s shadows, Paco watched David looking fixedly through the opening in the cell door. He had noticed a drastic change in the young militiaman. He was not the same enthusiastic man with dreams of becoming a knight. His eyes were haunted, as though all he saw reminded him of some terrible occurrence. David had every right to grieve for his brother, Paco thought, and to be furious at the attack on his family’s farm, but his expression was not one of sorrow or anger, and his mood was not so much sombre as tense. No, there was more than just Juanjo’s death on David’s mind … Perhaps the Jewish girl had put some spell on him. He seemed taken by her.

Paco had served Sagrat’s dukes for over twenty years. He’d been but a lad of twelve and, unlike David, had begun his soldiering life as the militia’s lackey. He’d been no more than a messenger, a barracks boy who had emptied the soldiers’ piss and shit buckets and seen to the disposal of the waste. He’d never been happier than the day the garderobe had been built. The antechamber, with its long sitting bench with holes where men could shit and pee until their hearts were content, and not have to get rid the waste themselves, had been a glorious sight to him.

In the early days, he’d not been given a sword but a broom, a polishing rag, and a few clips around the ear when he’d not cleaned a pair of boots properly. Those days had been hard, but now he had a wealth of experience and keen instincts that only years of service could provide.

He’d only ever known Valencia. He had fought in no major battles and had never travelled outside the kingdom. His mind had not been weighed down with grand ambitions or dreams of adventure. Marriage to his childhood love and a flock of six children, arriving one after another before he’d reached his twenty-fifth year, had been fulfilling enough for him. He loved Sagrat and its people. He never grew tired of gazing at its mountains and fertile plains or walking along its busy streets, which were vibrating with vegetable traders, urchins, fish sellers, gossiping wives, and artisans. But he was now seeing his town becoming mired in ugliness and evil and those around him complicit in dark secrets and lies.

Paco’s eyes narrowed in contemplation. He didn’t believe in coincidences. All the events in the past few days were connected. He didn’t know how or why, but he was convinced that David Sanz, Captain Tur, and the duke had a lot to do with what had happened in Sagrat.

The duke killed the physician. He and every other soldier who’d been on watch that night knew it was no suicide. The Jew’s granddaughter had been unjustly treated – this he also knew. David had not returned after the duke summoned him. Where did he go? Why would he not talk about his audience with Peráto? Why was his farm raided only hours later? Tur had lied about the capture of the two murder suspects. He would never have allowed his men to beat prisoners to a pulp, nor would he scream a suspect’s guilt so profusely. But if Tur didn’t seize the two men, who did?

Lies and secrets surrounded him, Paco thought again, but he would keep his suspicions to himself. Fear kept men’s tongues silent, and he was no different from other common men, afraid of the nobleman they served and the religion they worshipped. His lips would be sealed, but his eyes would be wide open and his mind would stay keen. He would feign ignorance, but he’d dig a spoonful of dirt at a time until he uncovered the truth. He’d do this because he loved his town.              

“I’d kill them myself if I got half a chance,” Paco said, startling David. “Move away from the door. Don’t give him light from your torch. Let him squat in darkness.”

“They haven’t been found guilty yet,” David complained. “The magistrate hasn’t even been to see them.”

“You’ve got a lot to learn, my lad. We live in an age where guilt or innocence is determined by public opinion and the Inquisition’s whims,” Paco said. “They’re as good as dead. They’ll be lucky if they see another night. Can you not hear that mob outside? They’ve been at it since last night, crying out for blood and demanding public executions.”

“There will be a trial, won’t there?” David asked.

“Probably, although I doubt it’ll take the magistrate long to deliver a verdict. There’s a powerful thirst for revenge in this town. There are men outside from the port protesting the prisoners’ innocence, but they might as well complain to the boil in the crevice of my arse. The duke wants this over with, and he’s not going to listen to anything that might delay a burning. You keep your mouth shut, David – do you hear me? If Tur comes back here, don’t mention the prisoners’ injuries or even speak the word innocent. All we’ve got to do is make sure those murdering whoresons stay alive until it’s time for their execution.”

Paco pushed David out of the way and looked at the prisoner. This man didn’t murder anyone, but he would keep that thought to himself too.