The Errant Flock (18 page)

Chapter Thirty-Three

David unlocked the cell door and entered. The putrid smells that hit his nostrils were overpowering, worse than any he’d ever experienced before. The pungent odour of rotting pork lying on the dirt floor, which a couple of hungry rats were gnawing, made him gag. The stink of shit and pee running through the overflowing sewers and seeping up through the ground was heightened further by the stench of animal waste that had been thrown into the underground drains by the townspeople.

Rainwater dripped from the rock ceiling onto the ground, making a rhythmic popping sound and causing puddles to form in various areas. This was the first time David had seen the effects of wet weather inside the prison. He’d never noticed before how porous the granite stone was, how soggy the floor was, or just how inadequate the stone ceiling was at keeping out the rain.

The cells on this side of the prison formed part of a labyrinth of small caverns built into the hollowed rocks beneath the castle’s ground. Each cell had been modified with bars and stone walls to keep them enclosed and secure. In David’s mind, this part of the prison was suitable only for the rats that scurried across its floors. It had probably existed as a prison during the Roman occupation. There was certainly evidence to support this theory, for Paco had pointed out to him Latin writings on some of the walls. They should have filled the entire area with dirt when the last legion left Sagrat, David thought.

Huddling in the corner of the cell with her knees at her chest and her arms wrapped about them, Sinfa looked hopefully at him.

“Did you speak with the rabbi?” she asked with a hoarse voice.

David nodded. What could he say to her? He couldn’t lie, give her false hope, or make promises that he couldn’t keep. He could only give her bad news and hope that she would listen to his advice and see sense. He stepped closer and held the torch higher to brighten the space around her. She looked pitiful, he thought. Her gaunt face was filthy, and her hair hung limp and knotted around it, looking like a black hood. Her dress had torn just under the bodice. It was filthy, and there were probably enough bugs on it to chew off a mule’s ear.

David cleared his throat, feeling childishly uncomfortable at the sight of her bare skin.

“Did you speak to Rabbi Rabinovitch or not?” she insisted.

“I did at length, but it seems your rabbi is too afraid to speak out on your behalf. You won’t get any help from the Jewry. You must find your own way out of this.”

Her loud sobs filled the cell, drowning the noise of the dripping water and squeaking rats, which began scurrying away in fright. He wanted to hold her. No, he wished he could take her by the hand and run with her to safety.

“Convert. Throw yourself at the mercy of the inquisitor,” he begged her.

“I can’t … I can’t … I’m a Jew. I’ll go to hell if I convert,” she said, gasping for breath. “Oh God, help me! I can’t bear this another day!”

David got down on one knee and lifted her chin in his fingers. Her blackened face was streaked with white lines on her cheeks, where tears had washed away the dirt. “Listen to me. We are but flesh and bones housing souls, and whether they be Christian, Jew, or Muslim, it makes no difference to God. I believe that every soul will travel to heaven or hell together after our bodies die. Being Christian will not change who you are. I should know. I’m the same person now as I was when I was a Jew.”

“You were a Jew?”

David nodded.

“I can’t. I will shame my grandfather’s memory if I abandon my beliefs.”

“No, you won’t. He would not want you to suffer in this foul cell. The duke and his treasurer, Garcia, will not set you free, Sinfa. Your own people have abandoned you. If you refuse to eat the pork that’s given to you, you’ll starve; then you won’t have the strength to fight the diseases that must be lurking in this cell. You will never feel the sun on your face or breathe in fresh air. You will be in this place for years … Please heed my words.”

He could stay no longer. Rising to his feet, he urged her one last time. “You will have one opportunity to speak to the inquisitor before you are forgotten. Just one.”

“What do you mean you didn’t get a good look at the man’s face?” Paco insisted again. “You were stabbed in the arm, for God’s sake! You must have seen your attacker.”

David had spent the last hour trying to convince Paco that the wound on his arm had been caused by a thief trying to rob him of his purse. The rag covering David’s injury had not managed to stop a small amount of blood from seeping through onto the thin linen tunic’s sleeve, and Paco’s inquisitive character would not let go of the matter.

“As I said, I was taken by surprise. The attacker slashed my arm, and by the time I turned to face him, he was already running off down the street. That’s all there is to the story.”

“Christ’s blood, I’ve never met such an unlucky man. First your family’s farm gets burnt and then your brother gets killed, God rest his soul … and now you get stabbed with a dagger. David, you need to pray more often. You’re cursed!”

David almost smiled at Paco’s earnestness. “I do have good news. My mother and father have moved out of that terrible house. I helped them move into the house in your street, the one you told me about.”

Paco smiled. “It will be good to have you as a neighbour, David.”

“You say that now, but I warn you, Paco. If you bother my mother with questions as you do me, she’ll give you a tongue-lashing.”

Paco laughed. “I hope not, lad. I get enough lashings from that wife of mine.”

David sighed with relief when one of the inquisitor’s men-at-arms arrived. He hated lying to Paco.

Unlike the other familiars who had taken over the prison, this one was dressed in a partial suit of battle armour and looked as though he was going into battle. On his head, he wore an armet helmet. David had only ever seen a few of these, when he’d worked for the blacksmith. It was rounded at the top, like a bowl. It enclosed the man’s entire head and had hinged cheek plates, which the man had folded backwards. His gorget plate covered his neck and upper breast. David looked closely at it in the torchlight and noticed the Inquisition’s crest engraved just beneath a cross. He was fascinated with the amount of protection the man was wearing, from the bands of plate at his shoulders to his schynbald plates covering his shins.

“I’m surprised you can get up and down our great hill in that lot. Are you expecting an invading army?” Paco asked the man.

For the first time in days, David wanted to laugh. Paco would never learn to separate his thoughts from his tongue, he thought. One day his friend would get himself into trouble with his humour, which didn’t amuse everyone he met.

The familiar said sullenly, “Have you seen the hordes out there? We are prepared for anything, and you should be too. The inquisitor will arrive with the duke shortly, so best you tend to your business instead of sitting around like a couple of spent whores.”

David stood up and then looked at Paco, who still remained firmly in his seat with a furious scowl on his usually placid face.

“We have not been outside this prison for more than an hour or two in the past three days,” Paco said, refusing to stand. “We have not slept, eaten a decent meal, or sat on our arses for more than five minutes at a time. We live in filthy squalor not fit to house my goat, and we’re going blind, for lack of daylight. So I’ll thank you not to come prancing in here looking like a plated hog and giving opinions on what we should be doing with our time. State your business with us, soldier, familiar, or whatever you like to call yourself, and be done with it.”

David felt a rush of respect for Paco. He was the militia’s jester, never taking anything too seriously, always with a joke and a prank on hand when watches were tedious and long. Today, however, he was seeing Paco in a different light.

Looking at the man-at-arms’ reddened face, which looked like a slapped arse, he asked, “What do you want?”

“Have the two prisoners that were brought in last night been prepared for interrogation?” the man-at-arms answered, throwing a contemptuous look Paco’s way. “The inquisitor will arrive shortly with his entourage.”

“We’ll do that,” Paco said.

David turned his thoughts to the task at hand. He should have checked on the prisoners’ state of health various times, but he had not. Instead, he’d hoped that the next time he entered their cells he’d find them dead of their injuries. He was ashamed for thinking that, but death for them now would be much better than what was to come.

Thinking about having to face the accused, knowing that they were innocent and that he was guilty, sickened him. What a coward he was. His hands were trembling, and his legs could hardly hold him upright. He wasn’t sure if his body shook because he was terrified of what was about to happen or if perhaps he was overcome by shame.

The thought of being sentenced to death twisted his gut and made him want to shit on the floor there and then. Imagine it
,
he thought, being tied to a stake and burnt alive; or being choked to death by a heavy rope and left dangling in the air; or hung, drawn, and quartered, watching pieces of his body being cut off whilst he still breathed … And worst of all, standing in front of the townspeople as a repugnant man who’d perpetrated the worst crime in Sagrat’s history. He’d be pelted with stones and cursed to the fires of hell before he took his last breath. He should tell the truth and save his soul and his sanity. It was what any decent man would do. But he wouldn’t. He didn’t have the courage to face a town spewing hatred at him or to face a gruesome death. He was a disgrace, and he always would be.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Torches standing in each of the four corners lit up the windowless chamber. On the ceiling, a candleholder with several branches cast long shadows and looked eerily like arms reaching out to those sitting beneath it. Thick iron-hinged rings with chains and shackles attached were hammered deep into the stone walls. A row of chairs was in the centre of the room, and behind them sat two scribes at desks overflowing with parchments, files, books, inkwells, and quills.

David and Paco dragged Miguel, who was barely able to stand, into the room and shackled him by the hands and feet whilst two Inquisition men-at-arms did the same to Ignacio. When the accused were secured, David and Paco took their places at the door and waited for the trial attendees to arrive.

David had already seen the town’s prosecutor and his assistant enter. They’d been weighed down by documents. He’d also been present when the defence advocates had insisted on speaking to the accused men. Their job would be difficult, David thought, for both suspects were unable to speak or supply witnesses on their behalf. He wondered if justice would prevail here today, and if by some miracle, the two men would be set free due to lack of evidence. No … There would be no justice unless he confessed.

The duke, town magistrate, Father Bernardo, Garcia, the inquisitor’s magistrate, and two leading councilmen entered the chamber and took their seats. Captain Tur, one of the last men to enter, stood next to David and Paco. His face was drained of colour. He looked sheepishly at the prisoners, and then his eyes settled on the hard, cold floor.

“They’re a horrible sight, Captain, are they not?” Paco whispered to Tur. “I’m surprised they managed to put up a fight and that you found it necessary to beat them into submission.”

“Hold your tongue, Morales, and mind your business,” Tur told him. “I’ll not have you questioning me about mine.”

A burning heat engulfed David’s body. His chest felt tight, and his throat was as dry as an old wench’s mossy cave. Swallowing painfully, he stared at Garcia with unmasked defiance. Then, at the mere thought of the fight with the marauder, his wound started stinging. If it got infected, he might lose his arm, he thought. Damn Garcia and all the devils in hell if that happened.

He wasn’t afraid, and he wanted Garcia to know. He intensified his gaze. He was  wounded, but he was still alive and so angry that he would fight anyone else the whoreson sent and probably enjoy thrusting into him. He smirked, lifted his wounded arm so that Garcia could see it, and then watched with pleasure as the treasurer’s eyes narrowed to angry slits.

The bastard had suffered defeat. He was probably livid and feeling humiliated. He wished his thoughts could reach Garcia’s ears. They would hear him say, “I’m still posing a threat, you turd from a pig’s arse. I’m ready for you and any assassin you care to send.”

David shifted his eyes to the duke, whose forehead glistened with perspiration. Feeling a measure of satisfaction, he concluded that although the duke and Garcia had marked him for death, and that had been made painfully obvious, he saw fear in their eyes. In all likelihood, he would die at their hands or he’d be stabbed in the heart by their lackey, the scar-faced marauder. Yet at this moment, he felt strangely unafraid of them. The duke might be giving the impression that he was a mere interested party in this trial, David thought, but he was probably sitting there bum wetting himself and terrified of the truth coming out.

Luis shifted nervously in his chair and stared straight ahead. He could feel Sanz’s eyes on him. The man had not stopped staring at him since the moment he’d walked into the chamber. If it were anyone else, he’d order him removed for his audacity. David Sanz was a loyal soldier, Luis had told himself repeatedly since
that
night, yet there was an absence of respect in his bold glances. Maybe he now wanted the money he’d thrown back in Garcia’s face, Luis thought. He was probably as greedy as any other man was. Perhaps he was thinking of confessing to the inquisitor about the murders. Luis was surprised to find that he was strangely unafraid of that happening. There was not a man in the world willing to go voluntarily to the stake, not even a self righteous scum like Sanz.

Luis flicked his eyes over David and shivered as though a cold breeze had just enveloped him. Sanz was still glaring. He glanced at Tur. He’d speak to his captain about Sanz. He’d have him confine the man to prison duties on a permanent basis … No, that wouldn’t work. No matter where Sanz was, he would continue to vex. Garcia had been right all along, although he’d never admit that to the treasurer’s face. David Sanz would have to die.

Looking at the prisoners, Luis squirmed at their ugliness, yet his mind was not entirely focused on them or on the trial about to take place. He inadvertently grunted in anger. He’d been hoping for financial aid from the inquisitor but instead De Amo had demanded money. What an effrontery. The inquisitor could buy Sagrat’s castle and still have enough coin left over to live comfortably. His father-by-law’s arrival had been disappointing, Luis thought miserably. He’d given the Inquisition every courtesy: residency in the municipal palace, a new prison, complete access to the townspeople, and accommodation for a large entourage. Yet he, Luis, had received nothing but disrespect in return.

He’d never forgive his father by law, he decided, watching the inquisitor enter the chamber. The future duke of Sagrat had been baptised in the castle’s cold, damp chapel without one person of note being present to witness the occasion. The infant hadn’t even been given the name originally chosen for him. Gaspar Peráto, as he was now called, was not a good name. To make matters worse, he, Luis, was stuck with a madwoman for a wife, yet her father had not had the good grace to compensate him for the inconvenience or even mention his daughter’s insanity ... And now Sagrat was going to lose money to feed the inquisitor’s vanity in a grand auto-de-fé.

Sighing, Luis closed his eyes. Ugliness surrounded him. Everywhere he looked, the malicious eyes of greedy, power seeking varlets met his. He was being bombarded with problems, and they were ruining his happiness and his plans.

“Who deformed the prisoners’ faces?” the inquisitor barked at Luis in front of all those present. “How can they confess to me when they have no voices to speak with?”

“My lord inquisitor, I believe Captain Tur may have been overly zealous when capturing the accused,” Luis answered with an equal amount of disdain. “According to him, the prisoners were armed and put up a fight. They are murderers and had to be subdued. Isn’t that right, Captain?”

Tur nodded. “Yes Your Grace,” he said.

The inquisitor continued to stare at the two mangled faces kneeling in front of him. He despaired at Luis’s lack of common sense. A soldier under the command of a nobleman would never strike an accused unless his master gave him permission to terrorize the common man. This was a clear sign of bad leadership, and the fault lay on Luis’s shoulders, for it demonstrated that Sagrat’s militia had no respect for their duke.

De Amo faced a conundrum. He was obligated to follow canon law to the letter, for it sat at the core of all Inquisition procedures. Suspects could only be arrested after the Holy Office’s magistrates and a theology expert
had seen conclusive evidence against the accused. But in this case, a civil authority, not the Inquisition, had collected and perused the testimonies. Naturally, the suspects were to be presumed guilty, and the onus would fall on them to prove their innocence, but how could these men defend themselves, he wondered again, if they couldn’t even open their mouths?

His sole task was to obtain an admission of guilt and a penitential submission, but achieving this would also be impossible. During every trial, scribes meticulously documented accusers’ statements and suspects’ words as well as records of the prisoners’ treatment whilst in custody. The prisoners also had the right to question evidence against them, and if it were to be found lacking, the suspects were usually set free immediately. Interrogating and issuing a verdict on both men together in a single day would also be frowned upon, for by law, every Inquisition prisoner must have the right to a full investigation over a period of days, weeks, or even months.

Taking a moment to look at the witnesses’ written statements, he wondered how he could justify such a speedy trial. Under Inquisition law, it was not necessary to reveal the names of accusers to the accused. Nor did he, as inquisitor, feel it necessary on this occasion to investigate the witnesses’ truthfulness. All five testimonies seemed to agree on facts, the time the crimes took place, and who had been responsible.

When he’d arrived at the prison, he’d been shocked to see hundreds of people gathered outside, weathering the damp and cold. Their calls for the suspects’ execution had been heartfelt and desperate. High Mass would take place in two days. He needed the townspeople’s undivided attention, and he wouldn’t get it if the case against these two men was not resolved.

He comforted himself. His real work would begin after Sunday’s Mass. These two men were obviously guilty, and the charges against them didn’t require a lengthy investigation. No one would know that Inquisition procedures fell short on this occasion. God would forgive him, he believed.
He
would be satisfied to see the two murdering whores go to hell.

The inquisitor regarded Miguel and Ignacio, and for a moment, he felt pity. His stiff pristine white collar and cuffs, black robes, cap, and cloak, were in stark contrast to the men’s half-naked bodies, which were covered in bruises and blackened with dirt. The prisoners were on their knees, craning their necks and moaning with pain.

De Amo stepped forward and touched both prisoners’ heads as though he were blessing them. He felt one of the accused tug the hem of his robe. He looked down and saw the man’s broken fingers. He shuddered and shifted his gaze to the other man, who was clasping his hands in prayer. His eyes, blackened and bloodied around the edges, held a terror that Gaspar de Amo had seen previously on heretic’s faces. But even he, a hardened interrogator, found it difficult to look at him.

“I believe I am ready to begin,” he told all those present.