The Lords of Time

by Eva García Sáenz

  “Yes, I’d really like us to be friends again, too.”

  We said goodbye, looking each other in the eye for the first time in a long while. But I hadn’t told him the whole truth. I still had one last task to carry out: Quejana.

  I always made sure to present the examining judge with detailed reports, and this case would be no different. After all, it was the last case of my career. There were still a few loose ends to tie up in The Lords of Time investigation, and I needed to make sure everything was perfect.

  Judge Olano once said my work was “impeccable and implacable.”

  I glanced at my red wristband as I gripped the wheel.

  No loose ends, I told myself as I headed toward the north part of the province.

  A few miles from the seat of the Ayala family, my phone rang. I was taken aback when I saw the name on the screen: Ignacio Ortiz de Zárate. I pulled onto a side road that led to a small chapel bordered by green hedges.

  “Yes?” I said.

  “Hello, Inspector.”

  “What do you want, Ignacio?”

  “First, don’t hang up on me, and give me a chance to explain.”

  “I’m not going to hang up on you, Ignacio. You aren’t Tasio.”

  “That’s what I want to talk to you about. That’s why I’m calling, obviously. I can only speak for myself when I say how deeply sorry I am about what happened to your daughter and your grandfather. I heard he came out of the coma and is no longer in critical condition.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Then I’ll be brief. This is as uncomfortable for me as it is for you. I’m moving to the States. For good. My twin brother is in prison for abducting a minor, and I already went through that hell twenty years ago. I’m selling the house in Laguardia as well as the apartment on Calle Dato. I have no intention of ever coming back. Our lawyer, Garrido-Stoker, explained what Tasio learned about your daughter’s DNA. I have no intention of bothering you or interfering in your daughter’s life. If she ever learns the truth about her father and wants to know more about his side of the family, I’d be more than happy to step in as her uncle. But if she doesn’t, and I hope for her sake that’s the case, then she’ll never hear from me. I don’t have much more to say. I’m sorry your family had the misfortune to cross paths with mine.”

  And with that, he ended the call.

  More collateral damage, I thought.

  The actions of narcissists are like stones tossed into a pond. They create ripples that become waves and end up devastating the lives of those around them.

  Soon afterward, I parked beneath some bare trees, their boughs entwined with those of their neighbors, creating thick knots. I prayed that the priest would be in the old chaplain’s house.

  “Don Lázaro!” I yelled, rapping on the door with the knocker.

  “Who’s there?” a hoarse voice called from across the courtyard.

  I asked him to let me into Chancellor Ayala’s chapel. Once he left, I slipped on my gloves, possibly for the last time. I entered the crypt and faced the tomb of the couple whose DNA said they were my ancestors.

  I was still coming to terms with the implications, but once I was there, in that solitary place, I had the overwhelming sensation that their story was part of mine, and everything around me felt familiar. Those stone slabs that had held a branch of my family through the centuries, the copy of the immense red-and-gold altarpiece, even the silence—it all somehow belonged, in part, to me.

  I approached the alabaster tomb. The forensics team had examined every inch of its interior and found nothing other than the three sets of remains.

  The tests I had asked Doctor Guevara to carry out had confirmed that the other woman’s corpse belonged to Gonzalo’s mother, Gemma Martínez.

  Gonzalo hadn’t confessed to his mother’s murder. Irati told us that, in exchange for a reduced sentence. Alvar’s son killed Gemma after she spent all the money Inés Nograro had given her. She and Gonzalo returned from Asturias with the intention of demanding more from the family.

  But Gonzalo was fed up with his mother’s financial management. He hated constantly having to ask her for money, justifying his expenses, lying. They had a fight. It ended with Gonzalo digging a hole in the rain with his bare hands in a eucalyptus grove in Cantabria.

  It was the same day he arrived in Ugarte. He took a room at the Old Forge, where Irati filled him in on the villagers and the Nograro family. The next morning, he went straight to the Nograro family cemetery, where he met his next victim: Ramiro Alvar.

  Over time, having gained Irati’s trust, he persuaded her to get the key to the Quejana complex, where her sister, Claudia, worked. It was a secluded place that attracted few visitors, and there’s nowhere better than a tomb for hiding a body…and something else.

  I went to the altarpiece and tried to pull it away from the wall. It wouldn’t budge. Patiently, I ran my fingers around the edge until I found it. One corner, which depicted the chancellor kneeling, was loose. I felt gently behind the canvas.

  And there it was: the copy of Count Don Vela’s chronicle.

  A book with a stitched leather cover and parchment pages.

  I slipped it out of its hiding place. I had to admire Gonzalo’s logic.

  What better place to hide a copy than behind another copy?

  64

  RAMIRO

  UNAI

  November 2019

  I looked out at my students. The entire class had been listening to my lecture intently for more than an hour. I had decided to use my most recent case to demonstrate the practical reality of criminal profiling. And I had resolved to include all my mistakes and false leads.

  “At first I believed we were dealing with a serial killer. Then I thought the murderer suffered from dissociative identity disorder. It took a long time before I finally realized there was more than one killer. By focusing exclusively on the medieval lead, I lost valuable time. I failed to see that each crime bore the mark of its perpetrator: cowardice in the case of the Spanish fly poisoning, which was done at a distance; shame in the case of the immured sisters; and cruelty, inherent in poena cullei.

  “But the key to this case is the instigator, Gonzalo Martínez. He persuaded his followers to see the murders as ‘collateral damage,’ as he called it. The aim was to steal Ramiro Alvar’s family fortune, worth hundreds of millions of euros. But this was no simple bank robbery with guns and bags of money. The strategy was to strip Ramiro Alvar of his fortune with the law in one hand and his own novel in the other. If he was successfully framed for the murders, then legally he could not hold his title and wealth. And his own method of healing, his version of the chronicle, was the very weapon that implicated him in the murders.”

  I scanned the back row for Doctor Leiva. She’d promised to attend my first lecture to put her stamp of approval on this new phrase of my career, but the class was over and she hadn’t made an appearance.

  The students filed out of the lecture hall, and I was left to put away the audiovisual material. Then I saw her, and she wasn’t alone.

  Estíbaliz was with her, and she was pushing Ramiro Alvar in a wheelchair.

  “We’re too late, I’m sorry,” Marina apologized the instant she walked in.

  “It’s my fault,” Ramiro Alvar said. “We waylaid her.”

  “Now I’m curious,” I said. “What brings the three of you here?”

  “Ramiro has agreed to undergo therapy with Doctor Leiva,” Estíbaliz said solemnly.

  “To put it bluntly, Estíbaliz told me I had to if we were to continue seeing each other,” he corrected her.

  “Yes, but I’m making no promises,” she went on. “You have to choose whether you want to follow the path to recovery or not. And once you’ve decided who and what you are, I’ll decide whether I want to be with you.”

  “In
fact, Ramiro will be my last clinical case before I retire,” said Marina. “Although I’m also going to give up teaching, I’m confident I can help Ramiro. I doubt many of my colleagues would be able to make an objective diagnosis.”

  “I’m really happy to hear that,” I said. “Could I talk to you alone, Ramiro Alvar? I have a couple of questions I want to ask you.”

  “Call me Ramiro, Unai. From now on it’s plain Ramiro. The name feels less onerous. Ramiro Alvar is for official documents only.”

  “All right then, Ramiro,” I said with a smile.

  Doctor Leiva and Estíbaliz said goodbye and left us alone in the empty lecture hall.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I need to tie up one last loose end to completely understand this case. I’d like you to confirm a theory of mine—you’re not obligated, but if you do I give you my word that it will remain between us. I believe your alter identified with Bishop García because he was your ancestor. You didn’t explicitly say in your novel, but Bishop García’s illegitimate son, Lope, was the founder of your lineage. During a visit to the historical archives, I came across documents that named the first Lord of Nograro, Alvar López de Nograro, son of Lope Garceiz. The same Lope Garceiz who was the bastard son of the woman who ran La Romana Inn, am I right? You murdered Bishop García in your novel to change the ending and symbolically kill off your alter. That’s why you feared the bishop might kill his enemies. It made sense to you that he would kill Count de Maestu’s counterpart in the real world, so you were afraid Alvar would kill Estíbaliz. But you couldn’t believe Alvar would murder the two sisters, because in the novel they weren’t Bishop García’s enemies.”

  Ramiro pushed up his glasses, his nervous tic, and lowered his gaze.

  “It’s true,” he finally said. “According to the documents, he’s the first of our lineage. Our family is descended from a brothel-owner who sold her own sisters, albeit to avoid starvation, and the murderer of Count de Maestu. But it’s always been a closely guarded secret. That was the other reason I was so horrified when the novel came out. In reality, Lope was Bishop García’s illegitimate son, and when his father died, he inherited everything. The Nograro family always hid their origin story, but Lope inherited what was considered a fortune at the time. He sold the Pamplona palace to King Sancho the Strong and moved to the Valdegovía region to escape his notoriety in Victoria. That has always been the Nograro family’s biggest secret.”

  “I’m beginning to understand the way secrets and lies accumulate in old families. I also have something to tell you about another of your family’s secrets. We’ve recovered the missing copy of Count Don Vela’s chronicle. Gonzalo hid it behind the altarpiece in the crypt of Chancellor Ayala at Quejana.”

  “I don’t want it!” Ramiro snorted. “I don’t want to go anywhere near that thing. It’s a reminder of everything I’m trying to forget.”

  “One last thing. This is delicate, and confidential, so I won’t mention any names. The descendants of a branch of Count Don Vela’s family possess the original diary along with the documents to prove it. I think an appropriate gesture might be to return their property.”

  “Then there’s an end to it.”

  Shortly afterward, I called Iago del Castillo

  “I think I have something that belongs to you here in Vitoria.”

  65

  ONE TOWN

  DIAGO VELA

  Winter, the Year of Our Lord 1200

  We all ascended the steps to the ramparts above the North Gate. One of Chipia’s men sounded the trumpet, and presently López de Haro rode up.

  “What is it you want?” he asked. He looked gaunt, though nothing compared to the emaciated figures lined up along our wall.

  “Tell King Alfonso we’re ready to parley,” I declared.

  Chipia and the mayor were on either side of me. Next to them were Nagorno, Onneca, Lyra, Gunnarr, the Isunzas, the Mendozas, the rope makers, the butcher, two little girls, and an old man.

  Alfonso appeared on his white stallion. He looked at me expectantly and motioned for me to begin.

  “Speak up, Vela,” he said.

  “We hereby surrender the town of Victoria to you. All of it, both Villa de Suso and Nova Victoria. Your cousin Sancho the Strong has released us from our duty to defend it and will not be sending any troops, so it’s safe for you to dismantle your defensive line. This ordeal is over for all of us.”

  I noticed the tension fall from his men’s shoulders at once. The soldiers to the rear, whom the king couldn’t see, embraced each other in relief. There was a muted joyful outpouring from the besieging troops.

  “I accept your surrender,” the king proclaimed solemnly. “Open this gate once and for all.”

  “There are conditions,” I said.

  López de Haro laughed. “You’re in no position to demand conditions.”

  “There are conditions,” I said, standing firm.

  “Let him speak,” the king interjected.

  “There are to be no reprisals.”

  “Continue.”

  “Any person wishing to leave Victoria to make a new life elsewhere in the kingdom is to be free to do so without fear of persecution. We do not want to find bodies hanging from the trees in Los Montes Altos.”

  “That will not happen, you have the word of your king. I appreciate the dignity with which you have defended what is yours, and your bravery will not be forgotten.”

  “There is to be no pillaging,” I continued, “not that much of value remains. The townswomen must be respected, and no one will be put to the sword when we allow your men inside these walls. We want to know we can sleep safely in our beds without locking our doors, for we are used to keeping our yards open in this town, and that must continue if you want to keep your new subjects happy.”

  “Once again, you may rest assured. Your new king is no butcher.”

  “You speak of meat—bring in some of that delicious-smelling wild boar, rabbit, venison—whatever is cooking out there, and do it quickly.”

  “Standard-bearer, give the order. My new subjects deserve a feast.”

  López de Haro nodded and obeyed his king.

  “And do not stop favoring the market of Santa María, rather, lift the gate taxes,” I added. “This is a town of merchants and artisans. Without them there will be no market, and without a market there will be no tribute paid to the king. Do not lose sight of your ultimate goals.”

  “Do you seek to give a king orders?”

  “I am counseling a wise man, as I did your beloved uncle Sancho the Sixth.”

  “The art of listening. Yes, he was a good teacher. But I’ve heard enough. Let me pass, I am eager to greet my new subjects.”

  I gave the order to Yñigo, the only son of Nuño, the furrier.

  The North Gate creaked on its hinges and opened for our new king. A cart filled with bread and roasted meats arrived with him. The food never got to grace a table, for the ravenous townsfolk emptied the cart there in the deserted marketplace.

  * * *

  —

  Several days passed before the town started to come to life again.

  A few of the local artisans packed their tools and set off for Pamplona to open new workshops.

  Lyra prepared to travel to the Bagoeta quarry to replenish her forge.

  “We surrendered Victoria, but now it is one town not two,” she said, trying to console me before she left.

  “But at what price, sister?” I murmured as I watched her cart leave. “Never again will I blindly defend any land, town, or fortress. Only people. Nothing can compensate for the loss of a beloved.”

  Gunnarr and I set off to visit Héctor in the village of Castillo. We knew he must be worried for us, and that he would want to meet his new niece.

  Gunnarr left for the port of Santand
er that same night. His crew was waiting for him to ferry pilgrims to Santiago, and I knew he missed the sea, the freedom of being unconstrained by walls. He had a giant’s soul that was too large for any town; he only felt whole in big spaces.

  I was strolling near the fortress of Sant Viçente with my daughter in my arms when I met Martín Chipia mounted on a horse borrowed from the Castilians.

  “I have received a message from the king’s counsellors. Sancho is sending me to Mendigorría. He believes that my work here is done. We leave tomorrow.”

  “Won’t you wait for your men to regain their strength?” I ventured.

  “We are Navarrese soldiers, and the streets have been taken by Castilians. It’s best we don’t cross their path. After all, beneath every breastplate is the beating heart of a man. And we’ve all lost brothers-in-arms to the enemy. We leave tomorrow. Count Vela, it has been my privilege to fight alongside you.”

  “I wish you Godspeed, lieutenant. We’ll remember you with fondness here. I doubt we’ll ever meet again, but I hope that death continues to elude you,” I said, bidding him farewell.

  Life continued, inside and outside the town. We each followed our own destiny.

  I took my daughter to visit the tomb where her mother and brother lay. I began to tell her the story of our family, which, for the moment, ends here, in February, the year of our Lord 1200, in the town of Victoria.

  66

  THE LORDS OF TIME

  UNAI

  December 2019

  The month started with a gentle but abundant snowfall. We awoke to a silent, white city, as if somehow the snow had washed away all our bad memories. I leaned out of the balcony and let the cold air slip into my apartment.

  I could see Iago and Héctor del Castillo crossing the Plaza de la Virgen Blanca. I’d called to tell them about the DNA that proved I was a direct descendant of Chancellor Ayala. I wanted to know what they thought of it, or if they could find any historical document to back it up. I knew that the news had come as something of a shock to them, and I was eager to talk through it.