Grandmother Lucía could tell the memory still pained Alix and clasped her hand.
“I was heartbroken when Liazar died. I kept myself busy by tending the ovens. But I was with child, and when his brother, Esteban, came a-courting two years ago this very night, on Saint Agatha’s Eve, we soon wed. I continued with the bakery. Another tragedy followed on the heels of the last, and the sweating sickness took him. He became bedridden until finally he could no longer breathe. The shock caused me to lose the child, and I almost lost my love of baking as well. But then Ximeno Celemín came along. He was a blacksmith at Lyra Vela’s forge. We both lived with ovens—I baked bread while he made nails and horseshoes. But six months ago a fire broke out. Some say the straw was set alight on purpose by the Mendozas, who live on Rúa de la Çapatería, and left to spread in the south wind. Ximeno was burned alive. Afterward Lyra asked me to be head blacksmith, like my father before me. Since then I’ve been in charge of the forge.”
“Whenever tragedy strikes in this city, someone points the finger at those outside the walls,” said Grandmother Lucía wistfully. “Those accursed walls. Why don’t you undo your grandfather’s labors and pull them down?”
“The walls protect us.”
“From whom?”
“Enemies on the outside.”
“But we’ve never been attacked.”
“When the Vela family first came here, all we had was the forge, the well, and the big house. After the harvest, the Saracens would raid the settlement and carry off everything they could. The Velas would abandon their grain stores, take their children and the elderly, and hide in Los Montes Altos until the marauders left. Then one year the Saracens burned the houses to the ground. The Velas rebuilt everything. Where once the houses had been made of wood with straw roofs, they were now built with stone and were taller and stronger. But the walls were still necessary. The Saracens may no longer be a threat, at least while we have a king who believes in diplomacy, nor are the Castilians a threat under Alfonso the Noble, who respects our treaties. But this town needs a wall.”
“And who will save us from killing one another, young Diago? Old Gasteiz against Nova Victoria? The nobility with their tariffs against the traders who only want to sell their wares in peace?”
“No one is killing anyone, Grandmother.”
As she gazed out the window, the strands of hair on her head glinted in the glow of the torches.
“If you insist,” she replied. Yet I heard They are, and you know it.
I turned away from her uneasily, and went to salvage the chestnuts from the fire. Alix rose to assist me.
“I wanted to ask you about the night I returned,” I said in a hushed tone, as I poked the chestnuts with the fire iron. “Who was Count de Maestu entertaining at the wedding ceremony? I couldn’t see their faces, and I was…distracted.”
“The petty noblemen, the Ortiz de Zárate brothers, and Ruiz, Ruy de Maturana’s son. Although the exchange seemed less than convivial. They’ve clashed a good deal at town council meetings lately.”
“Ruy de Maturana was given a title?” I asked, bewildered.
“Only because he had seven sons in wedlock—the last was born shortly after you left. But almost all of them have died, only Ruiz is left.”
“I’m grateful to you for the information and for the supper,” I said, stooping to remove the chestnuts from the embers.
“I saw you enter the North Gate and head for Grandmother Lucía’s house. I wanted you to feel joyful, if only for a moment. At Count de Maestu’s funeral, you reeked of sorrow, so I resolved to prepare a little something to lift your spirits.”
I looked up, surprised and embarrassed.
“You needn’t trouble yourself on my account. I’ve wandered down many dusty roads, but now I’m home at last, surrounded by my family.”
“And yet your heart is broken. I stood next to you at Onneca and your brother’s marriage. I’ve never seen eyes as sad as yours. The eyes of a widower, like mine when I lost Liazar.”
I stood up, ill at ease.
“I’m no widower, my dear Alix. And I wish my brother and his spouse a long life.”
I put a few roasted chestnuts in her palm; her hand was accustomed to the heat of the forge and she didn’t flinch. On the contrary, she drew closer, as though she had noticed something. A puzzled look flitted across her face.
“You’ve smelled of lavender ever since I met you, but today it’s stronger than usual. Have you been rolling in it?”
I remembered the lavender next to my empty tomb, beside the abandoned mill. I remembered falling backward under Onneca’s weight, and I buried the memory.
“Come on, Grandmother’s still hungry,” I said, attempting to change the subject.
“Wait, it isn’t just lavender. I knew it, you smell of flour, rancid flour. And of—oh, my dear count!”
“What?”
“You have a woman’s smell about you.” She shook her head, as if I were beyond all hope.
She took another handful of chestnuts and returned to Grandmother Lucía’s nook.
“I may have to console your brother with a venison pie,” I thought she said as she walked away.
The old woman watched the youths milling outside as she gummed a piece of lardy cake.
With a mysterious smile, she opened her trunk and pulled out a skein of red wool. Then she produced a tiny knife from the folds of her skirt, cut three strands from the skein, tied a knot at one end and began to weave them together, holding the threads between her knees.
Alix and I said nothing about it. We three finished the chestnuts and discussed the recent snowfall.
We fell silent when the bells of Santa María began to chime. The din was to scare away the gauekos—the spirits of the night that even now spread its blanket over us. I had asked the parish priest, Vidal, a thin, biddable young fellow, to present the young bachelors with a pitcher of wine, as was the custom.
The youths began to sing. Every year, on Saint Agatha’s Eve, they formed a circle around the well in the churchyard. As they began tapping their canes on the gravestones, the onlookers fell into reverential silence.
Alix was reluctant to go to the window, even though her grandmother’s house was the first to be serenaded. We heard the earnest voices of the young bachelors:
“With God’s approval
And that of the mayor,
We are out serenading
Doing harm to no one.”
When the canes stopped tapping, a deathly silence filled the air. The bachelors were awaiting their reward.
“Would you take these chorizos down to them?” asked Alix.
“Won’t you allow them to serenade you?” I responded, puzzled.
“I have no wish for another husband. I have renounced marriage.”
“And yet you’re still so young.”
“I may be young in years, but I am old in grief. I have buried more husbands than most women in this town. If there were rumors after the second, by the time the third had died, many men began to look at me with fear and distrust. There was talk of branding me as a murderer, but many in Villa de Suso depend on the forge for their livelihood, even though some resent it. It kept me safe. Were I to marry and be widowed a fourth time, how long do you suppose it would take them to hang me? No, you go down to them while I stay here with Grandmother.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll go. I was planning to join them, anyway,” I added hurriedly.
“You? Are you sure?”
“Am I not a bachelor?” I grinned. “But I do need a favor from you. Come with me to the yard. I’ll give them the chorizos. They won’t see you.”
“If that’s all you’re asking…” Alix said timidly. She shrugged and accompanied me downstairs, where I searched among the shadows for a stick that might serve as a cane.
>
We observed the young men from the dark stairwell. They waited outside with their torches. Mother Moon was full and the snow-laden streets reflected enough light to reveal their faces.
“Ruiz is the one with the bulging eyes, is he not?” I whispered in Alix’s ear. I had not seen him since my departure.
“That’s him, doubtless expecting to reap his reward in some hay barn tonight,” Alix murmured, without looking at me.
A dozen or so youths were giggling in the street, debating whom to serenade next. Would it be María Bermúdez, or Sancha de Galaretta, the hosier’s eldest daughter?
I stepped outside and presented the basket of chorizos. Several youths emptied the links of cured sausage into a large hamper, which by evening’s end would be brimming with more sausages, bread, eggs, and rabbit meat.
“I’ll join you,” I declared, positioning myself alongside Ruiz de Maturana.
“My Lord Vela, I’m pleased that you’ve returned. Your absence was mourned by many here in the town,” he remarked with a broad smile. Too broad, and too tense.
“I knew your father, a good man.”
“Yes, he was a good man,” he agreed, somewhat halfheartedly.
We gathered at the next house to sing, our canes keeping time, tapping the ground and leaving circular hollows in the snow.
“On Saint Agatha’s night
When the bell doth ring,
We young men delight
To dance around and sing.
“As in days of yore
They were wont to do,
Going from door to door
Their promises to renew.”
A ruddy-faced girl and her mother leaned out of the window on the first floor. It was Milia, the layer-out, who fetched candles to illuminate the church for the dead and brought bread for the offerings. She always had work, especially in the winter. Despite her grim occupation, she was a cheerful sort and seemed to find amusement in everything she did. Milia’s daughter threw a loaf into the air, and the youths vied with one another to catch it and to thank the maiden for her contribution.
“Your father and I dealt with each other on occasion. Will you be taking over his affairs, I wonder?” I murmured in Ruiz’s ear. We followed the serenade, laughing along with the others.
“What sort of affairs?”
“Questions of manhood….I won’t mince words: Do you have a pinch of Spanish fly?”
“I have but one.”
“And I need two or three.”
“Then I suggest you pay a visit to La Romana Inn.”
“I’ve just come from there.” I stopped in the middle of the street, while the other youths flocked toward the South Gate, unaware we were lagging behind.
“In which case I fail to see what you want from me,” he said, shrugging. He began to whistle a tune unfamiliar to me.
“I want you to tell me what became of the other two pinches you purchased.”
“I used them with a married lady whom I cannot name, lest her cuckold of a husband take a whip to me.”
“You’re lying. A single pinch is enough to fuel a man’s ardor for two days and nights. Tell your next lie carefully, lad, for this is a grave matter.”
“What do you care about my use of such powders?”
“I care very much if it transpires that you slipped the two missing pinches into Count de Maestu’s goblet, causing his bowels to rupture.”
A sinister smile spread across Ruiz’s face. Indeed, the fellow seemed to have a continual smirk.
“You have no proof.”
“I’ve seen it for myself. If necessary, I will open him up again for the council to see.”
“Very well,” he finally conceded. “I’m guilty of two sins: lust and greed. The truth is I do have two pinches in my possession; the third is at home. I simply did not wish to share them, lest tonight lead to further pleasure in the days to come. But you are my liege lord, and your sharp mind is legendary. I have failed to deceive you. I shall give you one of the pinches I have with me, and you can reward me generously later. Tonight I feel ready for anything. I doubt I shall need powders to bed the cutler’s daughter.”
He bade me hold his torch as we veered off toward an orchard that belonged to the yeoman Pero Vicia. Ruiz pulled a small leather pouch out of his doublet, drew closer to me, and whistled.
Too late, I understood the reason for his whistle.
He handed me the pouch. Although I was wary, I did not foresee his next move. Just as I discovered the pouch was empty, the accursed youth raised his cane and struck me in the groin.
I doubled over, winded, as two figures emerged from the shadows and began to beat me viciously. Once I was on the ground, Ruiz kicked me in the head. His two cohorts vanished behind me, while Ruiz fled toward the town wall. I lay sprawled in the middle of Rúa Tenderías.
I managed to stand. The wet snow had quenched the flame of the torch in my hand, but that same snow guided me to Portal de la Armería.
I followed Ruiz’s path as best I could, my head spinning. One hand clutched my side, but the other grasped my cane; I was more than ready to use it.
I’ll hunt down your father’s killer, Onneca. The promise pushed me forward. My mind dwelled on Onneca, the powders, and Count de Maestu.
I could hear the reveling youth in the distance, but I took care to descend into the Armería district as silently as I could. I stayed alert to the slightest sound. I knew Ruiz could not have gone far.
The huge gate leading out of Villa de Suso to Camino de la Cruz Blanca and the village of Ali was shut, and no sentries were on the walk. They must have joined the young serenaders. I could expect no help from that quarter.
I approached the stairs to one of the gate’s towers, and there Ruiz’s footprints ended. As I lunged at the darkness with my cane, a dim figure emerged from the shadows and aimed a kick at my head. This time I ducked. The figure fled up the two flights of wooden steps along the side of the wall.
I set off in pursuit, despite my aching ribs and throbbing head.
“Stop, Ruiz!” I shouted, but he ignored me and ran along the ramparts until he reached the farthest tower.
Someone must have heard my pleas, for a sentry appeared, blocking Ruiz’s way with his pikestaff.
Ruiz wheeled around, only to realize that he was trapped between us.
“Very well, I surrender!” he cried.
But as I drew near, he took a running jump and leaped from the wall.
It was a twenty-foot drop. Even though Ruiz could survive the fall, my injuries prevented me from following him. I raised my cane like a lance and aimed it at the rogue, who had rolled down the mound and risen to his feet.
Mother Moon came to my aid once again as I launched the wooden staff. It hit him square in the back and he fell forward, the breath knocked out of him.
“Open the gate quickly and come with me!” I ordered the sentry. “We must arrest Ruiz de Maturana and take him directly to the prison.”
“On what charge, sire? Has he forced himself on yet another young girl this night?”
“You’ll have to ask the townsfolk about that. No, I am accusing him of the murder of Count Furtado de Maestu.”
16
SANTIAGO
UNAI
October 2019
“Oihana didn’t make it,” Estí announced as soon as I picked up the phone.
“She didn’t?” I repeated, stunned.
More than a week had passed since we’d pulled Oihana out of the wall. I was on my way to the hospital to interview her. I’d been counting on her testimony, hoping she would be able to tell us something about her kidnapper.
“She fought to stay alive, but her body was too damaged. She suffered multiple organ failure. She was so dehydrated by the time she was discovered that there
was a considerable chance she would’ve had brain damage if she survived. The doctors say the carbon dioxide she inhaled while immured killed her. I can’t describe how helpless I feel right now,” said Estíbaliz. Her words were heavy as stone.
I didn’t have to see her to know how angry she was.
“Where are you?” I managed to say. I wasn’t really in the mood to talk, either.
Two young girls trapped inside a wall.
The sick bastard.
“I’m in her room at Santiago Hospital. I stopped by to see how she was and found…this.”
“Wait for me. I’m close by,” I said. I didn’t want to discuss this over the phone. “Send me a WhatsApp with the room number.”
I quickened my pace on Calle Postas. Eventually, I made it to the hospital, a building with white arches and checkerboard tiles. Then Alba called.
“She’s dead, Unai. I’m at the hospital,” she whispered. She sounded strangely agitated; for once, she was more affected than I.
“I know, I know. I just found out. I’m downstairs. What’s the room number?”
“They moved her into 317.”
“I’m on my way up. I’ll be right there.”
We were all shocked when the victims turned out to be children. But this was the first case we had worked since Alba and I had become parents. No amount of training can give you the tools to deal with a child’s death. I suppose you simply have to harden your heart.
I entered the room, expecting to see Estíbaliz and the girl’s parents, but instead Alba was alone, sitting on a green leather sofa. She was devastated.
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