The Lords of Time

by Eva García Sáenz

  That is how Onneca was. She always managed to get her own way and to protect herself. I admired her pragmatic approach to life.

  “When I saw you on that bed, the pleasure you seemed to be taking from him,” I said regretfully, “I thought we had lost what we once had. That it had become a remnant of the past, and that it couldn’t be recovered. I find it so hard to accept that a single day kept our spirits apart. That if I had returned just one day earlier, you would still be unmarried and we could have canceled the wedding.”

  “Cancel it? You think I would have canceled it?” she asked, surprised. I felt a sudden distance between us.

  I let go of her braid and walked over to sit facing her.

  “You would have married Nagorno even if you knew I was alive?”

  “Nagorno is a great man. He has always been attentive, friendly, charming.”

  That’s not who he really is. It’s just one of his many masks, I wanted to tell her. But how could I explain? Where to begin? He wants to take advantage of the power you have over the weavers; he wants your estates; he wants everything.

  “And he’s implementing great reforms in town,” she continued.

  “Great reforms? The Mendozas already control the road to Arriaga, and now Nagorno has allowed them to collect a tithe on fruit. And what have they done? They’ve squeezed the traders even more. Yesterday I passed the Santa María market. There are hardly any apples, turnips, or leeks for sale. If the townspeople of Victoria can’t buy fruit or vegetables at the market, they’ll go elsewhere. That’s not what we want. We don’t want the nobles living a life of ease simply because they’ve increased the vendors’ tariffs. Victoria has always been a town of artisans and traders.”

  “Strange words for a count.”

  “Before we were counts, we were blacksmiths. That’s how we all began. And the lords of the town must protect Victoria. That’s why my ancestor Count Don Vela had the walls built when Alfonso the First, the Battler, was king. So that Victoria’s inhabitants could feel secure and to allow any visitors to the area to find security. If the market empties, the people will leave, and there will be no one left.”

  “You sound like my father,” she said in a low voice.

  “And he was found dead—”

  “We all have to die,” she said, handing me my boots. “He was an old man. His time had come.”

  He was a vigorous man, not yet forty-five. It wasn’t his time, Onneca. But I said nothing; for I had no evidence, only suspicions.

  “The town has grown since you left. When I was a little girl, the king granted us a charter and the San Michel district became Nova Victoria. Eventually, the same thing will happen to the cutlers’ area in the east—some king will build walls around that area to protect them. We need to control the town’s gates. The Maturanas now live close to the Portal Oscuro at the end of the Angevín district. My father didn’t want to give them the right to collect taxes, and he rejected the idea when it was raised by the council. But Nagorno is not against it, and I support him.”

  “What are you saying? You want to put families that control other villages in charge of our gateways and let them charge tithes, imposts, taxes? What right do they have to do such a thing?”

  “You know they’re not happy with King Sancho’s laws. The inhabitants of Avendaño are still moving to Nova Victoria, abandoning their villages, and so are people from Adurza, Arechavaleta, and Olárizu. Their lords would like to take up arms against us. The Lords of Avendaño have already attacked us on two occasions. They set fire to two roofs on Rúa de la Ferrería, and the baker’s wife, Anglesa, was badly burned. Why don’t you look to the future: we give control of the gates to the families who ask for it, and we make them our allies.”

  “Not if they abuse their power, Onneca. What do the women vendors say?”

  These women kept the town supplied with necessities in the same way a good housewife keeps her larder well stocked. If the town were running out of salted fish for Lent or if the harvest seemed likely to fail, they anticipated it months before and could bring seaweed bread or wheat seedlings from the Baltic so that no one would suffer from hunger. Oil, fish, candles, sardines…The council controlled the prices and punished those who didn’t supply the town adequately. And Onneca roamed the streets, walking among the stalls and chatting with the guild wives by firelight. In that honeycomb of streets, gateways, and walls, she knew which women worked hard and which were lazy. She spoke to them all: the silent ones, the nosy ones, the astute and the simple, the cheerful, the talkative, and the melancholy. Among them, they wove the fabric that kept Nova Victoria together. Onneca knew who drank, who went whoring, who dipped their wick outside the home, and which sister-in-law was about to grab another’s wimple, an offense punishable by a fine of fifty days’ pay. Onneca knew everything that went on within the town’s walls.

  “They won’t complain as long as they’re making money,” said Onneca.

  “That’s not what they told me. Why did they banish Joana de Balmaseda?”

  “She committed fraud with some candles.”

  “I was aware of that, but why did she do it? She was a widow with two small children. Why would she risk losing everything? I don’t think people are as satisfied as you say they are. I don’t like it, Onneca. I don’t like what Nagorno is permitting, and your father didn’t like it, either. He told me so the night he died.”

  “Father is no longer with us. And until my brother returns from the lands of the infidels, I am the head of the de Maestu family. I suppose you will reclaim your title, and Nagorno will no longer be Count Don Vela.”

  “That’s right. Tomorrow the notary will prepare the documents, and the lieutenant, the mayor, and the royal bailiff will serve as witnesses.”

  “So in the end I’ll only have been Countess Vela for a few days.” She sighed.

  “Nagorno has been Count de Maestu since yesterday.”

  “That too,” she said.

  “That too.”

  This was how we had always ended our discussions, both of us refusing to budge.

  “Our heir will be a de Maestu and a Vela. If you remain unmarried, who knows, perhaps the son I have with your brother will be Count Don Vela.”

  I had no more interest in talking. Perhaps two years had been too long. Perhaps Nagorno had been too much.

  * * *

  —

  As we left the mill, a squall rained hailstones on us, so we hastily took cover again. As we were doing so, we heard a horse whinnying and turned to look. Nagorno was staring at us from the door to the mill. He wasn’t alone. He had a magnificent animal with him, the finest mare I’d ever seen. A short coat, with a metallic sheen. Her coat’s pure gold was reflected Onneca’s eyes.

  “It began to snow so we sought refuge,” Onneca lied.

  “I know,” said my brother calmly, smiling.

  “He didn’t see us,” Onneca whispered in my ear. “He doesn’t know what we did.”

  This is Nagorno, dear Onneca, I wanted to tell her. Believe me, he knows what we just did better than either of us.

  10

  NOGRARO TOWER

  UNAI

  September 2019

  “What happened to your mother?” I asked, pressing Alba for more details as I stepped into the corridor of Ramiro Alvar’s apartment.

  “She fell down the stairs at home after she dropped Deba off with Germán. They’re operating on her now: I think she broke her hip.”

  “I’ll come right away.”

  “Where are you exactly?”

  I told her about my visits to Malatrama and the Nograro Tower.

  “Well, finish your interview and come after that. Deba is with your brother, and Grandfather is on his way from Villaverde. He’ll arrive before you do. I’m going to the hospital even though she won’t be out of the operating room for an
other three hours. Pick up Deba when you get to Vitoria. I’ll call with any news. There’s nothing you can do right now.”

  “All right, I’ll finish things here and then we’ll head back. Estíbaliz will want to see your mother as well.”

  “I know. See you soon.”

  “Alba…”

  “What is it?”

  “Don’t worry. Your mother is strong, and we’ll take good care of her.”

  I went back into the room. Taking advantage of the cell phone still in my hand, I took the opportunity to snap a discreet photo of Ramiro Alvar. The lord of the tower was opening the windows, and I could feel a cold draught blowing in. He didn’t seem to notice, but Estíbaliz automatically raised the collar on her military jacket.

  Ramiro Alvar sat in a white leather armchair behind an enormous desk. He studied us with twinkling eyes.

  “So what brings a López de Ayala to the home of the Nograros?”

  “I’m here in my capacity as a Criminal Investigation inspector. We’d like to ask you some questions. This is Inspector Estíbaliz Ruiz de Gauna….”

  “Ruiz de Gauna…Even better. Did you know that Aestibalis is Latin? It refers to the villas where the Romans spent their summers.”

  “Wow. No, I didn’t know that,” Estí answered.

  Ramiro Alvar must have liked her candid response, because he gazed at her as though she were a precious sculpture.

  “I’ll ask you again: What brings you two here? I can’t think of anywhere less appropriate for two guardians of the law. Everything here is in order. Always. The girl the bailiff occasionally sends in and I are the only ones in the tower.”

  “The woman employed by the local council, you mean,” I corrected him. Ramiro Alvar didn’t appear to know what century we were in.

  “Mere details…But you still haven’t answered me. The rooster combs will be getting cold, unless you’d care to join me.”

  “Really, there’s no need,” Estíbaliz cut in. “We came to ask you about a novel, The Lords of Time. What can you tell us about it?”

  “The Lords of Time? I haven’t read it. Why did you come all the way from Vitoria to ask me that?”

  I watched his reaction. The question barely interested him; he was already growing bored with us, or at least with me.

  I took a copy of the novel out of my pocket, the one I had hoped to have autographed the night before. Was I now facing the person who should have signed it?

  “I like the cover. I see the Carnicerías district and the guilds’ streets,” he said, inspecting it carefully. “But I still don’t understand why you’re asking me about it.”

  “Are you Diego Veilaz?” Estíbaliz asked him, point-blank.

  “Me, a Vela?” he asked. He looked as though he were sucking on a lemon. “Why on earth would I want to be a Vela when I’m Alvar Nograro, the twenty-fourth Lord of Nograro Tower? Vela’s dynasty died out, but mine continues. Would you want to claim an extinct noble line?”

  “Not at all,” replied Estíbaliz.

  “What is the novel about?” he asked, staring at the book on his desk as if it were a strange insect.

  “It’s set in the twelfth century,” I explained. “Count Diago Vela has just returned to the chartered town of Victoria, and the novel takes us through his clash with Count Nagorno—”

  “Forgive me for interrupting, young man, but I fail to see what a historical novel has to do with your work.”

  “Well, lots of people die in the book,” I began.

  “It was the Middle Ages, that’s to be expected…” Alvar said absentmindedly. His attention had already wandered; he was leafing through the novel, pausing at certain pages, as though reading passages at random.

  “We’re investigating the death of a local businessman. He died a few days ago, under circumstances similar to one of the deaths in the novel.”

  “What were the circumstances exactly?”

  “He died near the back wall of Villa Suso palace. As I’m sure you know, that was the original medieval wall, built in—”

  “You’re saying that this man died close to the fortifications,” he said, interrupting me again.

  “And that’s not the only similarity. Have you heard of cantharidin?”

  “Spanish fly? Caesar’s wife, Livia, used to give it to her guests. She added it to the dishes in her banquets, let Mother Nature take its course, and then threatened to destroy their reputations. Given the turn this conversation has taken, I’ll no longer insist that you eat with me,” he said, winking mischievously at us.

  “As I said, we’re working,” Estíbaliz insisted.

  “So the man died in sin, or with the intention of sinning.”

  “No, we don’t think so,” I explained. “The dose he ingested leads us to believe the cantharidin was used as a poison, not as an aphrodisiac.”

  “Then I’m pleased, for his soul’s sake. But you really must explain what the Nograro Tower has to do with your investigation.”

  “We know that you have collaborated with Malatrama, the publisher of the novel. We have evidence that indicates that the author hiding behind the pseudonym Diego Veilaz contacted the publisher from this tower. All of which leads us to believe that you published that novel under a pseudonym, for whatever reason.”

  “And why would I want to publish a book? To earn a living?”

  “It’s possible.”

  Alvar rose from the heavy armchair and motioned for us to follow him to the large window that dominated the room.

  “Have you seen my estate?”

  We could see wheat fields that had been harvested, poplars planted with geometric precision, vegetable gardens, a cemetery, a large backyard, and some houses in the nearby village of Ugarte.

  “My family has overseen these lands for centuries. At one time they also owned the mill, the forge, the toll bridge, and the church. I don’t want you to assume I suffer from the deadly sin of pride, but trust me, my family does not need to work.”

  “Don’t you even celebrate Mass?” asked Estí, who had moved to stand beside him in order to enjoy the view.

  “Oh, please….”

  Alvar was pretending to take everything we said in stride, but he was clutching the novel, marking a spot in the book with his finger. I assumed a particular passage must have caught his eye.

  “Can you see the moat, Estíbaliz?” he asked her, seemingly out of the blue.

  “Yes. It’s funny, I thought they only existed in fairy tales and period dramas. I didn’t think I would ever see one filled with water.”

  “It’s the setting for one of my earliest memories. When I was a child, our whole family used to get into a little boat and row all the way around the tower just for fun. Would you like to try it?”

  “Oh yes, I love the water,” replied Estíbaliz, doing a good job of feigning enthusiasm.

  We exchanged glances for half a second. I’ll take care of him; you handle her. I nodded.

  “I won’t join you,” I said, although it hardly seemed necessary, since I hadn’t been invited. “I’m going to ask the guide to show me around the…”

  But Alvar was no longer remotely interested in what I had to say. He was leading Estíbaliz through a door camouflaged by the wallpaper, and I was left alone in the strange, old-fashioned room. I nosed around the library, which was full of heavy volumes with ancient leather bindings.

  Eventually, I went back the way I had come in. I walked over to the small office on the ground floor, where the guide was pretending to work on the computer.

  “I don’t know whether this is possible, but I’d love a tour of the tower?”

  She gave me a rather timid smile and picked up a bunch of keys.

  “Let’s go to the exhibition room. You can ask me any questions you have. It will have to be quick, though. I need to cl
ose in twenty minutes.”

  “Let’s get started then, shall we?”

  She agreed, and we entered a room that served as a gallery. Portraits of past lords were displayed in glass cases.

  I paused to study them. Some of the men’s faces were similar to Alvar’s, young and attractive. Others were quite different, with heavy mustaches and darker skin. There were also family scenes, including an old photograph of several women and small children in a small boat being rowed by a priest.

  “Only the sons named Alvar could inherit,” the guide reported. “They also had to respect a code of honor that Fernando the Fourth put in place when he bestowed the family title.”

  Then she showed me a large canvas with a painted tree trunk bearing tiny, handwritten names. Different generations branched off to the side: the younger sons’ entire families. I counted around thirty generations in a thousand years.

  “I was expecting to see a mannequin dressed in a nun’s habit,” I said.

  “A mannequin? We haven’t ever used clothes in our exhibit, at least not that I know of,” she said, puzzled.

  I showed her the photograph Estíbaliz had sent me, and she looked at it in confusion.

  “Yes, that does look like this room. It must have been a temporary exhibition. I haven’t been here for that long, but I know they change the display so the pieces don’t get damaged. I don’t think I can help you. I’m really sorry. Ask Ramiro Alvar, though, he’s the one who takes care of things.”

  She proceeded to show me more of the tower’s collection: shotguns, rifles, revolvers, rusty cartridges, riding crops, and red-velvet saddles worn with use. There was also a significant collection of holy relics, as well as fire pokers, oars, and—

  The guide’s phone began to ring.

  “I’m sorry, I’ll step aside to take this,” she apologized.