The Lords of Time

by Eva García Sáenz

  I sighed.

  “By Lur. But do not accompany me—you always end up defending Nagorno.”

  “I’m not going with you, Diago. I know your word is law, but don’t ever make me choose between you and Nagorno. He saved my life in the Danish lands, and I became a man by his side in the East. You know I owe him for what I am today.”

  A quarrelsome, unreliable merchant, my beloved Gunnarr. That’s what my brother made of you. I kept silent. It was useless to revisit old arguments.

  I turned on my heel and headed for Rúa de las Tenderías and the home of the man who should have been my father-in-law, the good Count Furtado de Maestu.

  “Alix, go with him!” Lyra ordered the young woman behind my back. “Make sure my brother doesn’t do anything stupid. I’ll put Munio in his cage.”

  A few moments later, I heard light footsteps behind me.

  “I don’t need a wet nurse. Go back to your tasks,” I said, glancing at her out of the corner of my eye.

  She had raised the tail of her petticoat over her head, using it as a hood to cover her hair.

  “When my lady Lyra is absent, I serve Gunnarr, sire. But since my lord Diago is now lord of my town, in the absence of Gunnarr, it’s you I serve.” She showed me the battle-ax concealed in the folds of her robe and waved her hand in a conspiratorial gesture. “If you decide to chop off heads, I’ll be right next to you to keep you from losing yours.”

  Tired of arguing, exhausted after the long journey from Navarre, I allowed my new squire to follow me along the dark cobbled street. I had no difficulty finding Count de Maestu’s mansion. Its windows were filled with warm candlelight, in contrast with the darkness of the neighboring dwellings.

  I came across one of the count’s servants in the doorway. He was so intoxicated, he had to lean on the doorframe to stay upright.

  “Who goes there?” he mumbled.

  “Your lord, Count Don Vela,” I replied, weary of this constant questioning.

  “At this very moment, Count Don Vela is busy with other, much more pleasant tasks a floor above our heads,” he said with the ridiculous vehemence God bestows on drunkards.

  I trapped his neck against the door with my elbow, applying just enough pressure for him to take me seriously.

  “I am Diago Vela, Remiro, and if you don’t recognize me, it’s because you’re too drunk to be on guard outside your master’s door. Let me through before I tell the count about your habit of pilfering his Rioja wine,” I growled.

  Remiro tried to get some air into his lungs and finally recognized me.

  “Yes, it is you. Come in, my good lord. You’ve been greatly missed in Victoria.”

  “Where?” I growled, sick of finding every door closed to me.

  “They are in the bedchamber.”

  My squire followed with a worried look as I climbed the old wooden stairs that creaked beneath us. I reached the bedchamber—I had been there before. A dozen guests prevented me from seeing what was happening behind the bed’s canopy.

  I elbowed my way through. Some of the people recognized me, reacting as though they had seen a ghost. More than one crossed themselves. I paid no attention. I was trying to determine what was going on behind the curtain.

  It was my brother, Nagorno, copulating with someone, seemingly oblivious to their audience. The Church in Rome had condemned any sexual congress in which the man was not on top of the woman, and it also forbade nudity in bed. But Nagorno had stripped off his shirt, and I could see his shining dark back and the many scars he had gained in combat.

  A pair of white thighs protruded from either side of his body. The woman still wore her nightgown, but her face and her groans left no doubt that she was deriving pleasure from the act.

  It had been two years since I had seen that beloved face: those golden eyes, pale lips, and hair as black as mine. Onneca was enjoying herself to the astonishment of the witnesses, who were accustomed to seeing terror-stricken maidens.

  My God, Onneca! If they’ve forced you to have witnesses, you ought to make a better pretense of being a virgin, I thought.

  I was concerned for her. She was coupling with my brother, but even so, I was concerned for her.

  Neither spared their cries of pleasure until my brother had finished. He rolled away from her, unashamedly showing his naked, muscled body to the witnesses. A dozen curious heads crowded closer to see the result. The three chosen matrons pulled aside the curtain and examined the bed. There it was: the bloodstain her father had been hoping for.

  I sighed with relief. For a moment, I had forgotten Onneca’s resourcefulness. She would never leave something so important to chance.

  We both knew how to simulate lost virginity. It was common practice to conceal chicken entrails in the bride’s intimate parts to ensure there would be blood on the groom’s member. Years earlier, when we were planning our betrothal, Onneca and I had laughed about it in my bed, realizing that her father would ask for this proof of her maidenhead.

  I don’t think she recognized me. She was too busy maintaining her dignity, trying not to reveal too much to our insatiably curious vassals. But my brother saw me. It was only for a second. We locked eyes, and then he pressed his lips together and smiled contentedly.

  Instinctively, one of my hands reached for the dagger concealed beneath my cloak. A smaller hand prevented me from unsheathing the weapon.

  “Count de Maestu, my lord,” she warned me.

  Furtado de Maestu was still an imposing figure, even though he had aged since I’d seen him last: his shiny hair was now gray, and his smile looked weaker. Still, he made a fine figure—he had always dressed as if it were his daughter’s wedding day. It was obvious that he owed his fortune to trading in the rough cloth that was so much in demand among the citizens of Castille. Thanks to de Maestu, the weavers’ guild had become the largest in Nova Victoria, the parish of Sant Michel that was surrounded by the wall. Nova Victoria had become part of Villa de Suso a decade earlier when King Sancho the Wise confirmed our charter. On paper, the two districts formed a single walled town, the town of Victoria, coveted for its location on the frontier and known as the key to the kingdom. But the fortifications and the three gates divided more than streets and neighborhoods.

  “How is this possible, my dear Diago? You’re alive!” the count whispered, peering around him anxiously.

  “I always was,” I retorted. “You owe me an explanation or two, my dear friend. We said farewell with the promise of a betrothal. You were going to be my beloved father-in-law, and now what am I? The brother of your daughter’s husband?”

  He motioned for me to say no more and led me up a staircase, trying to make sure no one saw me. With a glance, I commanded Alix de Salcedo to stay in the bedchamber with the others. She clearly did not like the idea, but she obeyed.

  “You never said farewell, my good lord,” the count said, challenging me when we were alone. “You simply disappeared.”

  “I had my reasons. I don’t owe anyone an explanation.”

  “I’m not asking for one. Believe me, my grieving daughter waited for you, and I kept my promise of betrothing her to you. But then a letter arrived announcing your death,” he said, wiping the remains of the banquet from the corners of his lips with his sleeve. He handed me a letter that he had drawn from a velvet-lined chest.

  I read it, then asked, “Who gave it to you?”

  “A messenger, I suppose.”

  “And why did you believe it?”

  “Why not? It’s full of details about how your boat was wrecked off the coast of Sicily.”

  Whoever had written the letter knew what few others did: that I had journeyed across the Alps to Sicily and that a storm had separated us from the other ships. What else did he know?

  “It’s true there was a voyage and a storm. It’s also true that my ship was driven
off course until we found ourselves near Sicily. But the ship didn’t go down, and no one was killed. Not even me, as you can see. So because of a letter brought by an unknown messenger, you hand over my promised bride to my brother?” I said, my voice rising in anger.

  “Shh! Don’t cause trouble. You’re in my house, and most of the guests haven’t recognized you, so we need to see how we can resolve this mess. To answer your question, I believed the letter because it bore the royal seal. I didn’t see the need to keep the envelope, so I can’t show it to you. But here’s the pattée of his signature.”

  I read to the end of the missive, and then had to clear my throat. “The king is Don Sancho the Wise?”

  “He governs us now. Do you know of any other king in the lands of Navarre?”

  It can’t be. He wouldn’t destroy my future so cruelly after all I’ve done for him, I thought, forcing myself to remain calm.

  “Get some sleep, good lord. It’s late, and it’s plain to see you’re tired from your journey; you still have blood in your hair. If you stay here there’s bound to be a scandal. Let your old friend celebrate his daughter’s betrothal in a fitting manner, and tomorrow we’ll see how we can resolve this situation. I fear you’re likely to face more urgent problems than the fact that your brother has stolen the woman who was supposed to be yours. Nagorno, who is now Count Vela, leads the nobles who recently arrived in Nova Victoria with a firm hand, and, according to those who have spent their entire lives in Villa de Suso, he favors them too much. And if my good-for-nothing eldest son continues playing at the Crusades and manages not to have any children, today’s marriage agreement stipulates that Onneca’s descendants will become the Counts de Maestu. That means this marriage will unite my fortune with the one that was once yours, and Nagorno and Onneca will be the lords of everything contained within our walls.”

  3

  THE ROOFTOPS OF SAN MIGUEL

  UNAI

  September 2019

  I hurried back up the narrow stairs to the main hall where Alba was waiting.

  “We have to bring in more police. And we need it done as quickly as possible!” I told her, perhaps a bit too loudly. “They need to seal off all the exits. We have a dead man, and it may be a poisoning.”

  Alba took out her cell phone and began to make calls. The doors to the Martín de Salinas room were still closed. The audience for the book launch was inside, unaware of what had transpired a few yards away.

  At that moment, I thought I saw a shadow heading upstairs.

  “Stay here,” I whispered to Alba. “I think I just saw a…a nun.”

  I ran past an enormous French window that looked out on the back of San Miguel Arcángel Church and then climbed to the third floor, trying not to make any noise.

  “Stop right there!” I shouted.

  Yes, it was a nun, dressed in a white habit and black wimple. She ignored my warning and ran toward a security door that led out of the building. It took me several seconds to react; I didn’t expect her to be so defiant or so agile. I followed her out onto a terrace that ran alongside some stairs by the roof of the nearby church. The nun was leaping from one roof to the next, getting away.

  “Stop!” I shouted again. I realized I wasn’t going to catch her, so I adjusted my strategy.

  The nun was reaching the far end of the church and would be forced to jump into one of the narrow passageways separating it from the palace. There was no way out. The alleys, lined with lavender bushes, sloped up to the restored medieval wall. I jumped into one of the alleys and hid in the shadows, waiting.

  The nun jumped from several feet up and rolled when she hit the ground.

  Now I’ve got you, I thought.

  I ran toward her, but she scrambled to her feet and sped up the slope. I gave chase, but when I rounded the bend…she had vanished. Into thin air.

  There was nowhere she could hide. The lavender bushes were not tall, and the slope ended at the wall.

  “Stop!” I shouted a third time.

  My shouts were in vain, as were my searches of the passageways and the gardens.

  I dialed Alba’s number. “Alba, tell the janitor I’m stuck in a passageway between the palace and San Miguel Arcángel Church, below a restored stretch of wall.”

  “I’m coordinating the operation. What are you doing there?”

  “Take statements from everybody in the palace,” I told her. “Ask if anyone saw anything that caught their attention. We also need to close off the Plaza de Matxete and interview all the people working at the medieval market.”

  “What are we looking for?”

  “A nun. But don’t ask any leading questions, and don’t mention her unless the witness does. I don’t want anybody inventing things.”

  4

  THE SOUTH GATE

  DIAGO VELA

  Winter, the Year of Our Lord 1192

  A woman’s cry interrupted what had been a sleepless night. Dawn was shedding its first light on the battlements. I had been unable to find consolation in my old bed: it was empty, covered in hoarfrost. The fire in my chamber had gone out before daybreak, and the early-morning chill had kept me awake. At least I didn’t dream of shipwrecks.

  Voices shouted from Rúa de las Tenderías. “They’ve found the count! They’ve found the count!”

  Opening my old chest, I chose my most respectable clothes. I didn’t want to be taken for a vagabond again. I washed my face with water from the basin and ran downstairs.

  I didn’t need to ask where the count was found. I just needed to follow the throng.

  Near the South Gate, then, I thought. I was soon at the foot of the wall near the gate. Beyond the town rose the spire of Sant Michel, indifferent to the tragedy.

  A few heads were pressed close to the corpse. I managed to push my way through, but by the time I stood over him, his body was already cold.

  The man who had been destined to be my father-in-law, Count Furtado de Maestu. He had not looked in the best of health when I left him the previous evening. He seemed worried and careworn; one of his sleeves smelled of vomit where he had wiped his mouth. At the time, I had blamed the excesses of the banquet and the profusion of wine.

  But I had seen a corpse like this before.

  I needed to be sure. How could I confirm my suspicions in the midst of this crowd?

  I bent down to examine him. His dark clothing hid the stain very well. I could just make it out.

  This man urinated blood.

  It was then that I saw her. Alix de Salcedo, but without her aggressive white owl. Her hair was hidden beneath a three-pointed wimple—an unusual detail—but I saved my curiosity for later. I jerked my chin, motioning for her to come closer.

  “He was a just man. I was sure he would die of old age,” she said in an undertone, her eyes fixed on the stiff body.

  “Can you get me a rabbit?” I whispered.

  “Alive or dead?”

  “I need the skin.”

  “I don’t think they’ll let anyone out of town right now, but the butcher’s son keeps a few of them in his yard. Shall I buy it or steal it?”

  I slipped a couple of coins into her weathered fist. She had the calloused hands of someone who wielded a hammer or a weapon.

  “Where shall I take it?”

  “To the count’s mansion, we’ll meet there.”

  Before I could turn around, she had disappeared.

  “All of you, back to your work,” I shouted. “Somebody bring a cart and a mule. We need to return the good count to his home.”

  “Is that you, my lord, Don Diago Vela?” asked a man holding a crossbow on the rampart.

  “That’s right, Paricio. I know you were given news of my death, but I have returned. Before I can take charge of what I left in Victoria, though, we have to deal with this emergency. Tell everyone I am back, an
d that I will listen to their concerns as I always have.”

  “But your brother is in charge of that now. Which of you are we to turn to?”

  I feigned calm and smiled.

  “To me, without doubt. You will go to him once I am truly dead and buried.”

  Everyone laughed with relief.

  The count’s body was transported to his home, carried up the ancient staircase to the main floor, and laid out on the bed where only a few hours earlier his daughter had been betrothed to my contemptible brother.

  “Is the smith here?” I asked, as they were undressing the dead man.

  Just then Alix de Salcedo appeared, carrying a white rabbit.

  “Everyone is to leave,” I commanded.

  Remiro, the count’s elderly servant, and the two neighbors who had accompanied me to the mansion descended the stairs, which creaked and groaned under their weight.

  Alix did not obey. Rather, she gestured as if to say, There’s no way I’m leaving here.

  “As you wish. Do you know how to shave?”

  “I used to shave my father and brothers. I have a steady hand.”

  “You only have to shave the rabbit.”

  “My lord?”

  “If you don’t, I will, and you can slit open the body. We have to hurry before anyone returns to stop us.”

  Alix asked no more questions. She took out a dagger and moved to the window for more light. I raised Furtado’s tunic, cut open his stomach, and removed his viscera.

  I carefully lifted the organs with a piece of cloth in order not to touch them and placed them in the washbasin.

  “Bring me the skin, Alix. I have to rub it against the viscera.”

  “What are you trying to achieve?”

  As I rubbed the skin against the count’s organs, blisters appeared and part of the skin appeared to be scorched.

  “Just this. Years ago, a doctor in Pamplona showed me this technique. This is the effect of the blister beetle when you take more of it than you should.”