The Errant Flock (17 page)

Chapter Thirty-One

Candles flickered inside houses. Outside in the deserted street, a heavy downpour battered the earth, watering the soil and turning it into a slushy stream running over David’s feet. “You,” he said to Alejandro. He drew his sword.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a patch of bright red and shifted his gaze from the marauder for just a second. Even from a distance, David could see the horse’s white breath leave its mouth and a man wearing a hooded red cloak sitting on its back. David instinctively knew whom the rider was … Garcia had finally made his move.

“We meet again.” Alejandro planted a smile on his face, yet he stood with his arms and legs in an offensive stance. “Do you still want to fight me?”

A deep growl left David’s throat, and he unleashed the rage he’d been nursing for days. With the agility of a cat, he moved forward, his flushed face and hooded eyes filled with hatred. Advancing, he watched Alejandro’s belligerent smirk being replaced by surprise and fear, and self-belief soared within him. “I’m going to send you to hell, you murdering turd!”

The two men were equally matched in height and build. David’s arms, as thick as tree trunks, were taut with solid muscles, strengthened over the years by lifting and swinging bladesmith’s tools and, later, swords, longbows, spears, and maces. Energy rushed through him. His desire for revenge dulled his senses. No more hiding. No more fear. He would not die at the hands of this bastard, his inner voice screamed. He’d kill the marauder and piss on his dead body!

David spun around in a complete circle, pivoting on one foot and with his arm in the air, gaining speed and momentum. Drawing back his elbow slightly, a movement needed in order to obtain the best line for his thrust, he faced Alejandro and then lashed out with his sword. At the first clash of steel, David felt his sword vibrate and bend against the heavier and larger claymore blade. He stumbled backwards but quickly regained his footing in time to deflect Alejandro’s swift slashing parry. Using that sword, the bastard would likely tire long before
he
did, David calculated, but there was a possibility that his own sword would bend and break under the weight of the thicker blade.

The two swords struck at an alarming speed. Alejandro was a superb swordsman, David kept thinking, and he was quick on his feet. The street had a steep incline. David knew that if he took his eyes off his opponent for even a second, he would die. Alejandro held the higher ground, which gave him a huge advantage. He had strength, skill, and a tactical mind, but after every clash, David searched for weaknesses.

Watching for moments of tenseness in his opponent’s hands and shoulders, David managed to gauge when Alejandro’s next strike would come. He was also noticing that just before Alejandrostruck, h
e
glanced in the direction he was going tomove
.
David was aware that he was defending rather than attacking. This was clear because he had lost ground and was moving backwards down the incline, sliding in the mud as though he were skating.

Every time he jabbed, Alejandro blocked and then struck back twice as hard. David’s sword hand was becoming painful, and for a brief second, he saw his death.

The crashing sound of steel on steel grew louder as the thrusts intensified. Both men were panting and grunting like beasts. The rain blurred David’s vision. His sodden cloak was heavy, making it hard to dodge, twist, and turn. But neither the torrential rain nor exhaustion deterred him or Alejandro from trying to inflict a fatal blow.

For a brief second, David took his eyes off Alejandro and saw people coming out of their houses. He couldn’t stop now, he thought.
He dies or I do.
The thought of death energised him. Raising his sword, gripped now in both hands, he groaned loudly and rained it down in an attempt to slice into Alejandro’s shoulder and render his arm useless.

Alejandro ducked and deftly moved out of the blade’s reach. Then, with his arm outstretched, he swung his body around at the hips in a half circle and pivoted back until he faced front. His claymore flashed with speed through the air, slicing into David’s forearm.

David lost all feeling in his hand. His sword fell from his grasp, and he groaned in disbelief. Looking down, he saw it hit the ground, and sink into the mud. He panicked. The marauder’s sword would cut him down by the time he reached his weapon. Without thinking, he lunged forward and threw a punch. His fist connected with Alejandro’s jaw. Stumbling backwards, Alejandro slipped in the mud and fell onto his backside.

Getting back up, Alejandro’s sword was forgotten for the moment. Both men traded blows. David, losing all strength in his wounded arm, felt Alejandro’s fist raining onto his face and tasted blood spraying from his nose. He fell to his knees, rolled over in the ankle-deep mud, and reached his sword. After grabbing it, he tried to stand, but twice he slipped on his thinly soled boots, which were seeping in water.

Panting, he looked up and saw Alejandro standing above him, sword in hand and swinging it high above his head … Inexplicably, he held it there, and then he harassed David with childish giggles, false lunges, and feints, as though savouring the moment just before going in for the kill.

David’s eyes bored into Alejandro, and then sensing the exact second of the strike, he rolled his body twice, ending up a few paces from where the sword’s tip landed.

For just a brief second, Alejandro stood looking down at his sword sticking in the slush. Grunting angrily, he flicked his eyes to David, painted in deep red mud, almost the same colour as the blood dripping from his arm, and struggling to get to his feet. Clearly losing his enthusiasm, Alejandro jerked his sword from the dirt and moved to strike David again.

David, now back on his feet, panted with exhaustion. His sword did not feel as comfortable in his left hand as it did in his right, but he’d learned to use both over the years.
Don’t give up!
his mind screamed.

The two men glared at each other. A handful of men stood watching from a safe distance. Women who had come outside were told to get back indoors. David braced himself and planted his feet in an en garde position. Alejandro struck first. David blocked but felt his feet slipping again, as he was forced to take another couple of steps backwards. He would die now, he thought. His wounded arm was heavy and limp. He couldn’t hold the lower ground any longer, and he couldn’t beat the marauder with only one functioning arm.

He glanced at the onlookers, and then he stared directly into Alejandro’s eyes. “Get this over with,” he panted.

Alejandro nodded. “It will be my pleasure,” he answered.

With a grunt, Alejandro swung his sword. David’s body swerved, evading the weapon’s tip by a hair’s breath, and then he too struck with every bit of strength he had left.

Neither man saw the onlooker with a thick log in his hand advancing towards Alejandro from behind. When he thumped the wood against the back of Alejandro’s skull, shock and surprise crossed both the sword fighters’ faces.

David, a spectator now, gasped at the ferocity of the strike. Alejandro staggered towards David with the force of the blow. His pupils rolled upwards, and then he dropped like a stone to the ground.

Holding the sword limply in his left hand, David advanced on Alejandro, whose unsteady legs were slipping and sliding in the mud as he tried to stand. The neighbours’ angry shouts halted David.

“That’s far enough, lad! There have been enough killings in these streets of late!” the man holding the bloody log said to David.

David looked briefly at the onlookers’ furious stares. The battle with the marauder was over, he thought. The people had saved his life, but they probably wouldn’t think twice about wrestling him to the ground if he tried to carry on with the fight.

Alejandro had managed to get to his feet after struggling with his heavy muddied cloak. The back of his head was bleeding. He touched the wound and then looked at the blood on his hands. “You were fortunate, but this is not over. You hear me? This is not over!” he shouted at David.

“Off with you!” the man with the log said to Alejandro. “Don’t show your face in this street again.”

“I’m coming for you,” Alejandro told David. He then turned his back on the crowd and strode away.

“I’m here, you bastard! Come and get me!” David retorted to Alejandro’s retreating form.

Filled with hatred, David watched the marauder trample through the mud towards the end of the street. When Alejandro reached the corner, the horseman in the red cloak appeared, riding a horse and leading another. After Garcia handed the reins of the spare horse to the marauder, David returned Garcia’s stare. He was too far away to see the treasurer’s expression, but he didn’t need to look into Garcia eyes to know that they were full of hatred. The feeling was mutual.

Turning around, he stumbled through the clustered group of men.

“Who was he?” the man with the log asked him.

“A thief probably. I’ve never seen him before,” David lied. “I thank you for saving my life. I’m indebted to you.”

The men went back to their houses, but the man with the log remained.

“Lie to me if you will but have a care, lad. The man you were fighting was no thief. He was a skilled swordsman, and he wanted to kill you.”

David nodded. “Yes, I know, and I wanted to kill him.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

David sat bare-chested in the only chair in the room and grimaced with pain at the first touch of the damp rag on his wound. The muscles in his cheeks were taut. His skin was the colour of cold white ash. Droplets of sweat had settled on his forehead, and his eyes were still full of rage.

His mother wept and his father cursed the duke and Garcia to hell, but all David could think about as his mother bathed his injury was how lucky he was to be alive and not lying dead on the muddy ground in a nearby street. He’d been so sure of his skills when he’d faced the marauder. His anger had been so intense that he’d felt invincible. The images of Juanjo’s ripped face and his mother pleading for revenge should have been enough to spur him on to victory through rage alone, but in truth, his rage had probably been the cause of his defeat.

“They won’t stop. They’ll come after me again,” he said to no one in particular.

Juan’s forehead was furrowed with worry. His hair was untidy and looked as though it had not been washed for weeks. “I agree,” he said grimly. “Give me your sword, son.”

“Why do you want his sword?” Isa asked, frowning.

“I’m going to heat it in the fire and burn the wound.”

“No. I’ll use a needle and thread. I’m going to close the slash,” she told him. “Fetch me a bunch of comfrey or elm herbs. They’ll ease the pain … And bring some dried figs for the infection. Knock on every door until you get them. Hurry.”

When Juan left the house to look for the herbs that Isa requested, she rinsed out the rag and then hunted for a needle and thread. “There’s nothing of any use in this house,” she grumbled after a few minutes. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Keep your arm still and don’t move from that chair.”

David stared unseeingly at the hearth and the softly glowing fire within it. First his mind was filled with thoughts and regrets, and then it was filled with images of swords sparking together as though they would ignite. Even now, he heard the echoing, ringing clash of steel. He touched his painful jaw and felt the marauder’s fist raining punches on his face. He still tasted the thick mud that had splashed into his mouth and slipped down his throat. Finally, he saw his own image, carelessly dropping his guard and exposing his arm to the marauder’s blade.

Isa had meticulously ground the elm herbs to just the right texture and had placed them inside the open wound. When she had sewed the final stitch, completely closing the gaping slit, she smothered the stitches and the surrounding area with powdered figs and then bound the arm in a linen rag. She had given David comfrey herbs for the pain before she’d begun her ministering, insisting that he chew them and then swallow them with his saliva.

              Juan sat patiently, knowing that interfering in the healing process would mean a tongue-lashing from Isa. He had never had such dark or dismal thoughts. What could he say or do to help his son? he kept asking himself. David could live in the prison. He would be safe there. But he couldn’t stay there forever, shutting himself away just to stay alive.

“Listen to me, David. We will survive this,” Juan finally said. “As soon as we have enough money, we’ll leave Sagrat, and if we have to, we’ll cross the nearest border and get out of Spain.”

“Leave our country?” Isa said, looking horrified. “And go where?”

“To another country,” Juan said. Looking about him, he added, “Pack what little we have. We’re not spending another night in this hovel.”

The sudden sound of men shouting filtered into the house through the shutter slats. Juan instinctively grabbed the poker lying at the side of the hearth. David got to his feet and with Isa’s help put on his tunic and chain mail vest. Picking up his sword, he said, “They’ve come for me.”

“How did they know you were here?” Isa asked, clearly panic-stricken.

Juan said, “I suppose he was followed.”

The door rattled with heavy knocking. Juan, Isa, and David stared at the vibrating wood.

Tears were streaming down Isa’s face. “Oh God, no … David, hide. Please hide,” she begged.

“There is no hiding place, Mama,” said David, still looking at the door.

              “By order of the inquisitor, come outside immediately!” a shout rang out.

The Inquisition? What new gloom was this? Juan wondered. Would they drag David away like a criminal? “Son?” he said miserably.

“It’s all right, Papa.”

Juan opened the door and stepped into the street. David put his helmet on and followed his mother, who had covered her head with a thin blanket.

The torrential downpour had eased but still fell in a soft misty spray. Men, women, and children had already gathered outside, bunched together and looking terrified.

Juan put his arm around Isa’s shoulders and held her to him.

The men-at-arms, or familiars, as they liked to be called, had become a common sight in Sagrat. Two of them stood apart from the crowd, dripping water from their hair and armour, but neither seemed in any hurry to announce the reason for their summons.

One of the inquisitor’s men held a piece of parchment that was getting wet, and he tried to shield it with his cloak. Juan stared at them, and he realised after a moment or two that neither man was paying attention to anyone in particular.

David, standing much taller than the rest of the neighbours and dressed in a soldier’s uniform, stood out amongst the others, yet they never looked at him. They seemed more intent on making sure that all the neighbours were present. Juan choked back his tears. The men were not here for David.

“What’s going on?” Juan whispered to a neighbour.

“I don’t know, but I wish they would hurry up and tell us. We’ll all be drenched if we stand here much longer,” the neighbour grunted.

Standing behind his parents, David felt his heartbeat ease into a steady pace. Filled with relief, he could only guess that the neighbours were going to hear a decree which would involve the entire town.

Finally, one of the Inquisition men-at-arms read from the wet document. “By order of the Holy Office, Pope Innocent IV, and Their Majesties King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella …” He paused for effect. “The townspeople of Sagrat will, without an exception, attend High Mass this coming Sunday morning at the tenth ring of the church bell. Those who are able-bodied and do not attend will be punished!

“On completion of Mass, you will remain in the church and thus hear the edict given to you by the inquisitor, Gaspar de Amo. This town and its people living therein are now under the protection of the Inquisition and its canon law … That is all. Go about your business!”

After the familiars had left, Juan, Isa, and David huddled around the hearth.

Isa, holding Juan’s hand, asked, “David, do you know what this edict will say?”

Shaking his head, David said, “I haven’t heard anything about this High Mass, but I have seen instruments of torture at the prison. The inquisitor’s men speak of heavy duties to come and the prison overflowing with heretics. I fear the inquisitor is weaving a web. He is the spider, and we are his flies.”

David wanted to tell them about all the other dismal chatter he’d heard at the prison. The terms Judaists, heretics, errant flock, confessions, and punishments were in every conversation, as though his town had already been found guilty of breaking every religious law ever invented by man. If he survived Garcia and his marauder, he would see some very dark days. No one would be safe from the inquisitor, he thought, no one.