Yet a vague instinct told him something wasn’t right. It centred on why Salinas didn’t seem to have any idea of what was going on. He could understand Salinas lying to help cover for Jose Encinas to prevent himself from getting involved in this. But Armada already knew all about his involvement. So why not tell the truth? What did he have to protect by lying?
That was it, though. That instinct. Salinas wasn’t lying. There was a missing piece to this puzzle.
Armada thought about dashing back to town and stopping Lucas who was making preparations to head back to Granada with a letter Armada had written to his majordomo at the offices of the Holy Brotherhood. It requested that another constable, the Frenchman Bresson, be dispatched to track Jose Encinas down and bring him in. Bresson was brusque and a bit rough in his treatment of suspects, but he always got his man. He was the best tracker Armada knew.
But now Armada doubted that decision. Was he being hasty in sending a rabid dog like Bresson after Jose Encinas? Was he not a murder suspect? So why didn’t it feel right?
Armada’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of wagons approaching. He turned to find it was a single four-wheeled coach pulled by two magnificent black stallions that gave little protest as they hauled their heavy load up the final rise and into the cemetery.
The coach was very expensive, dripping in polished iron with metal-shoed wheels. The man holding the reins was dressed all in black, with a proper buttoned waistcoat and leather boots. The horses were well-fed, their manes neat and trimmed, their coats brushed until they shimmered in the sunlight.
In a place like La Herradura, such a display of wealth and extravagance was an odd sight indeed and attracted the annoyed glares of those attending the funeral.
“Buenas dias,” Armada called to the horseman.
The horseman ignored him as he hopped out of the coach and opened the door to the cabin.
A large man with a long grey-and-white beard stepped out. He was tall, a bit older than Armada, and wore layers of handmade clothes dripping in velvet and gold-laden embroidery. On his coat he wore a silver broach in the shape of a dagger. It was one Armada recognised—the Order of Santiago.
“Is this the cemetery for La Herradura?” the man asked.
“Yes. Are you here for the funeral of Martin Figueroa?” Armada asked.
“Who? Of course not. I have no idea who that is. Gaspar, you can unload now.”
The horseman nipped to the back of the coach and unloaded several small metal tools, paying little heed to how the clanging sound was interrupting the funeral nearby.
“Perhaps you should wait until this funeral is over. Out of respect for the family,” Armada said.
“I haven’t the time. I want to be on my way before sundown. Now, which of these graves is Esteban Marañón?”
“What’s your business with him?” Armada asked.
The man waved Armada away and turned to his horseman. “You take that side, Gaspar. I’ll look over here. It has to be here somewhere.”
Armada stepped into the man’s path, which got his attention. “Señor, I am Domingo Armada, constable of the Holy Brotherhood, and I am here investigating the death of Esteban Marañón. I demand to know what your plans are with his grave.”
Armada knew his green sleeves and leather waistcoat marking him as Brotherhood could be seen. Yet this man wasn’t intimidated in the slightest.
“And I am Gustavo de Marañón y Haro, Viscount of Castrillo, oidor of the Royal Chancery of Granada, and knight of the Order of Santiago. And I don’t have time for a lowly constable like you. Now, tell me where my son is buried.”
“Your son?” Armada said, unable to hide the shock.
“Yes. Esteban is my son and does not deserve to be buried out here with these peasants. He belongs in our family mausoleum in Valladolid to be buried alongside the rest of his ancestors. These people had no right to put him in the ground like this.”
“Forgive me,” Armada said. “But Esteban told everyone here he was an orphan.”
The viscount looked surprised. “Did he?”
“Why do you suppose he did that?” Armada asked.
“I have no idea. Excuse me.”
The viscount pushed past Armada and joined Gaspar in stomping his way through the weed-choked cemetery, pushing the browned grasses aside to read each gravestone.
“Did you know he was here?” Armada asked.
The viscount ignored Armada and grumbled to himself as he fought his way through the weeds, trying to read gravestones whose inscriptions had long ago been worn away by time. Cemeteries were not a place this man visited often.
“I’m afraid you won’t find it that way,” Armada said. “His grave is unmarked. You’ll need my help.”
The viscount glared at Armada, who hoped his lie would buy him a bit of time. He had no idea where Esteban’s grave was. And his declaration did little to stop Gaspar, who continued his methodical search. The horseman would find it, but hopefully not before Armada could get a few answers.
“In exchange for what, then?” the viscount said. “Money?”
“Did you know your son was here?”
The viscount took a deep breath, raised his chin, and glared down at Armada like a headmaster about to discipline a schoolboy.
“No,” the viscount said. “He said he was going to spend the year visiting relatives in Malaga. I was there on business a few months ago and was told he never arrived. So I tracked him down here. It seems I didn’t get here in time.”
“How did you know he was here?” Armada asked.
There was a flash of guilt in the viscount’s eyes that dissipated at the shouts of his horseman a short distance away.
“Over here, sir.”
The guilt was replaced by contempt as the viscount ignored Armada’s question and went over to where Gaspar was pointing. The two men were satisfied with what they’d found, and the viscount watched as Gaspar picked up his shovel and began to dig.
The priest ran over, demanding to know what the viscount was doing. Soon the entire cemetery erupted into volleys of shouting and arguing.
Armada slipped away and dashed back to the army camp just in time to catch Lucas hopping into the cart.
“Forget about the letter for now, Lucas,” Armada said.
“Did Jose Encinas return, sir?”
“No. But we’ll send the letter by messenger later. Come, everything has changed.”
Armada led Lucas over to their shelter, where Lucas had tidied everything away. He found the bag he was looking for, opened it, and spilled the contents all over the bed. He rifled through the debris until he found the bit of paper he was looking for.
“What’s happening, sir?”
“I’ve just met Esteban’s father.”
“Didn’t he say he was an orphan?”
“Yes, which covered his true intentions well. It seems Esteban is not who he said he was,” Armada said, smiling at a confused Lucas.
“He came from nobility,” Armada said. “He didn’t need the army’s wages. No, I believe Esteban came here for something else.”
Armada unfolded the genealogy of the Maraion family Esteban had been working on.
“And whatever it was, it has something to do with the Maraion family.”
Chapter Thirty
“I don’t understand,” Rodrigo Maraion said.
“Just look at it for a moment. Tell me if anything looks unusual to you.”
Rodrigo’s eyes darted over the paper.
“I wish you could tell me what I was looking for.”
“I wish I could too,” Armada said, leaning back on the bench in the Maraion family home.
Rodrigo sat opposite him at the large wooden table they used for their meals while bright sunlight spilled in through the tiny window over the kitchen.
“Are there any names missing, perhaps?” Armada asked. “A long-lost cousin? Or a grandmother by a different name? Anything at all that Esteban might have missed.”
/> Rodrigo looked it over again and furrowed his brow. “I’m sorry, but everyone is here. Going all the way back to my grandmother.”
Armada glanced over Rodrigo’s shoulder at Lucas, who was leaning against the countertop. Armada kicked himself for not having seen it before. As he glanced at the genealogy now, it was obvious the handwriting was by someone who had been well schooled in the art of calligraphy. The handwriting was elegant and clean, not that of an uneducated orphan growing up a beggar on the streets. How much time could he have saved if he’d noticed sooner?
“What about nobility? Has anyone in your family ever been titled?”
Rodrigo chuckled. He looked at himself, dressed in a soiled tunic with a ratty hat and soiled trousers that smelled of fish. Armada and Lucas had caught him just as he was about to go out for the day.
“What do you think, Constable? Everything I own smells like fish. And you think these might be the clothes of a titled man?”
“Very well. Then how about the other way. Criminals? Anyone in your family ever been to prison? Or been executed? Or sent to the Inquisition? Anyone extraordinary at all?”
“No. We Maraions have always been good, God-fearing people who abide by the rule of law. I can say none of us, as far as I know, have ever been charged for things like that. Now, can I go? There are only a few more good weeks of fishing left, and I need to make the best of…”
There was a clink behind them. Armada and Rodrigo turned round to see Lucas’s attention had been taken by a large iron pulley hanging on the wall. It was corroded but still recognisable as a pulley used to raise the sails on a large vessel like a galleon.
Lucas stared back at them, startled, as a piece of it had come off in his hand.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Lucas said. “I didn’t mean to…”
“Lucas, really,” Armada mumbled.
“It’s all right, my boy,” Rodrigo said, getting up and taking the pieces from Lucas. “It spent years soaking in seawater before my father found it. It’s always been falling apart.”
“Is it a piece from the fleet that sank in the bay, sir?”
“Yes. Everyone in the pueblo has something like this. The Maraions got quite lucky. That’s a good chunk of metal. If we had to, we could melt it down and sell it if things got tough. I’m thankful we haven’t had to do that yet,” Rodrigo said.
Lucas looked over Esteban’s family tree again.
“What is it, Lucas?”
“I’m sorry, Señor Maraion, sir…but I think you’re wrong. There are people missing from this family tree.”
“What do you mean, Lucas?” Armada asked.
“These names, sir. They only go back a hundred years. But you said your family has been here since the Reconquest. So why didn’t Esteban take any interest in the family more than a hundred years ago?”
Armada glanced at the broken pulley on the counter behind him. “The shipwreck. It only goes back to the time of the shipwreck,” Armada muttered. “Whatever Esteban was looking for, it’s connected to that.”
Armada turned to Rodrigo. “Were any of your family serving on those vessels in 1562 when they sank?”
“No. The people in my family who served in the army fought in France. They were never in the navy.”
Armada slapped his hand on the table and rose. He stared at the broken pulley, scowling at it.
“What am I missing?” Armada growled. “This is all connected. It has to be.”
Armada spun round. “Tell me everything you know about the night the fleet sank,” he said to Rodrigo.
“My grandmother told me stories sometimes, but…it was a long time ago. I don’t know how much I remember.”
“Did Esteban ever ask about them?”
“Yes. All the time.”
“Was there any part of these stories he seemed especially interested in?” Armada asked.
“Mencía,” Rodrigo said. “He was fascinated by the story of Mencía Marañón.”
“Who is that?” Armada asked.
“The lost daughter of Alonso de Marañón, who was a knight of the Order of Santiago. It’s quite a famous story. Somebody told me once Cervantes even wrote about it.”
“I’m not familiar.”
“Her body was never found,” Rodrigo continued. “So some people say she survived. There are stories she became a gypsy and spent her life wandering Andalusia, practicing black magic. There are fishermen who say she became a mermaid, and they swear to have seen her swimming around in the bay to this day. My mother believed her body is still trapped down there, and it’s her ghost that everyone claims to have seen—”
“Wait…wait…” Armada stood. His mind raced as he began putting the pieces together. Was it possible that…? Was that what this whole thing had been about?
“You stupid boy…” Armada muttered to himself.
“Sir?” Lucas asked.
“Not you, Lucas,” Armada said.
He turned to Rodrigo. “I cannot apologise enough for taking up so much of your time, Señor Maraion. Thank you.”
With that, Armada grabbed Lucas, and the two hurried out the door and began making their way back to town.
“What is it, sir?”
“Marañón. Her name was Mencía Marañón! Can’t you see?”
“No, sir.”
“Marañón. Maraion. When you speak them, they sound almost the same. Esteban got them confused! This case has nothing to do with the Maraion family, and we have bothered them enough.”
Lucas had to almost run to keep up with Armada, who was taking large strides back to town, his mind working through the implications of what he had learned.
“Does that mean he thought he was making a family tree of the Marañón family?”
“Yes!” Armada said. “He was looking for his ancestors, specifically those descended from this Mencía Marañón. That has to be it. And it must have been quite frustrating not to find any.”
“But why did Esteban want to know so much, sir?”
“More importantly, why did he want to keep it secret from his father? This was not idle curiosity. Esteban suffered a lot for this mission of his. All those long hours in the watchtower, all that abuse from the pueblo after the raid. Even when there were people who wanted him dead, he still didn’t leave. What made this search of his so important?”
“I don’t understand, sir. Esteban Marañón already knew he was descended from Mencía Marañón. He shares her name. What did he have to gain?”
“I don’t know. But I think we’ve found the beating heart of this case.”
Chapter Thirty-One
April 1563
Mencía awoke tired and hungry but didn’t dare move. Not until she knew she was alone. She opened her eyes and peered through the curled, brown leaves of the branches she had pulled over herself as camouflage. In every direction was nothing but more hills, more scrub brush and weeds, and the odd cortijo dotting the landscape in the distance.
Mencía removed the branches and stood. She was sore, and her stomach rumbled as it had for the past few days. She had never known a time when she was so thirsty. Her thirst blurred her vision and made her head hurt in the sun. She wasn’t sure how long she could keep going unless she found water soon.
As she had for days, Mencía kept the memory of Federico in her head. It helped to spur her on, for as long as she remained free from Garcia’s grasp, there was still the chance she would see her little boy again.
With nothing to eat, Mencía continued her trek north, hoping to lose herself in the open countryside. There were countless little pueblos scattered everywhere, almost all of them with some kind of public fountain where she could get a bit of water to drink.
As the heat of midday began to hit, Mencía came across a small valley with a dry seasonal riverbed at the bottom. And dry riverbeds meant lizards, which Mencía had learned to keep an eye out for. Her stomach had gone from rumbling to cramping, making it hard for her to remain upright as she stumbled over the rocky terrai
n.
A large lizard sunned itself on a jagged boulder a few steps away, and Mencía raced towards it, trapping it with her right foot.
Then she heard talking just behind her. Mencía spun round, but there was no one there. Both sides of the riverbed were overgrown with thickets of reeds that blocked much of the view. For a moment, Mencía thought the men were picking their way through, about to appear at any moment.
But the way the men were talking, they had no idea she was there. And she couldn’t hear their footsteps. That’s when she noticed that the men were high up on the far hillside, having just come over the summit into the valley. It would take them at least a couple of hours to reach her. It was odd how the sound carried in a valley, for it made it sound like they were standing right next to her.
But it meant they could hear her movements as well.
Mencía ate the lizard and said a quick prayer, begging God to let her come across a bit of water. Then she continued on down the riverbed.
After a while, the men had gone quiet, and Mencía assumed she had lost them. She followed the riverbed until it took her out of the valley towards the west and deposited her on the edge of a vast plateau covered in wild pine trees. Many were young, which meant they had branches that reached all the way to the ground and gave Mencía plenty of places to hide. It also meant the sound of her movements would be lost in the roar of the wind that was whipping its way through the pine branches.
By the time the afternoon rolled into evening, and the air began to get cold again, Mencía was confident she had lost them. Just to be safe, however, she gathered some branches and found a small rocky cove where she would be hidden from almost any angle. She pulled the branches over herself for warmth as well as for cover and tried to find a comfortable position on the hard, rocky surface of the cove.
Mencía didn’t remember falling asleep. But she was dreaming of Federico now, all grown up and smiling with her and Anton. There were a few other children there and a house Anton had built high on a ridge overlooking a mountain landscape, far from the sea that had brought so much misery to their lives.
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