Domingo Armada Omnibus

by Jefferson Bonar

  Isabel hesitated.

  “Please. It will help. I’m not here to judge you.”

  Isabel glanced up and down the lane. She lowered her voice to a whisper.

  “Esteban said he was meeting up with some of the other soldiers in the company. I wanted to go with him. So I made up an excuse to my parents and snuck out. I’d never done anything like that before.”

  Isabel glanced up the lane again. Someone was talking just round the corner.

  “I caught up with Esteban just as he was leaving. I told him I wanted to be with him. Alone. We’d never done that before. My parents were always around.”

  Isabel put her hand to her mouth. “Esteban had stolen some of the wine my mother uses for cooking. It was the other soldiers—they told him to. He didn’t do things like that. I said I knew a spot overlooking the sea we could go to instead. I’d never seen him look at me like that before. We drank the wine…and, well…”

  “I understand,” Armada said. But he was lying. None of this story made sense. “Did you tell your parents right away?”

  “Yes.”

  “And they kicked him out of the house?”

  “No. They wanted him to marry me. They loved him by that point. They considered him part of the family. They didn’t care that he was an orphan or that he didn’t have any money. He was good to our family. That’s what mattered.”

  “How did Esteban feel about marriage?”

  There was pain in Isabel’s eyes. Armada was getting closer.

  “He changed,” Isabel said. “He said it was sick and wrong what we did. That we should get rid of the baby as soon as possible. I told him I wanted to keep it. I wanted us to be a family. But he called the baby a demon and all sorts of horrible things. I’d never seen him that angry before.”

  “Did your mother know any of this?”

  “I’ve never told her,” Isabel said. “As far as she knows, he was always sweet to me. It was only in private he was like that.”

  “Did he try to convince you to get rid of the baby?”

  “He was obsessed with it. Every time we were alone together I was afraid he was going to try something. He seemed disgusted with its very existence. I don’t know how…how I could have gotten him so wrong. I thought...I thought he loved me.”

  Armada embraced Isabel, and she wept into his shoulder for a moment. It was risky being this close to her. If they were seen like this, alone in this road, it would mean rumours, denunciation, and worse.

  At that moment, Armada couldn’t help but feel contempt for Esteban. He had fooled the Maraions into thinking he loved them and yet had proven he didn’t. His attitude towards the men of his company was similar. But it made Armada wonder. What if Esteban hadn’t come to La Herradura looking for a family to belong to? What if he had come for something else?

  It made more sense than anything else. Perhaps the Maraions, like the army, were just a means to find what he’d really come for.

  But find what? And how could Armada be sure it had anything to do with Esteban’s murder? It left him feeling he was back where he started.

  “You didn’t deserve to be treated like that,” Armada said. “Your baby is not a demon. Esteban had his own problems with what happened, and I know he got angry. But I doubt it was you he was angry with.”

  Armada tried to ignore the three elderly women who were coming round the corner towards them. They were still chattering to each other but would notice Armada and Isabel soon.

  “Tell me, did your father know any of this?”

  “I never told him,” Isabel said, wiping her eyes. “But he may have figured it out. One night, my mother was out, and my father had to light the firepit. I had to do it for him, as he’s a bit useless at things like that. He asked me if anything was the matter. I told him no, but I don’t think he believed me. It’s hard for me to hide from him.”

  “And the harquebus that was used to shoot the boar that’s drying in your kitchen…that was his?”

  Isabel nodded. “You don’t think…my father…he’s a good man…”

  “I don’t think anything. I just need to know if he caught that boar in the hills below the watchtower.”

  “He—”

  “Isabel!” came a cry from the road.

  Armada glanced up to see an older man, somewhere in his fifties with a sun-scarred face and thin, floppy black hair, racing towards him. It was Rodrigo Maraion, Isabel’s father, Armada surmised.

  “I’ve been looking all over for you!” Rodrigo yelled in a gravelly voice. “Where have you been?” He glared at Armada.

  “It’s all right, Father. He’s just—”

  “Yes, I know what he’s here for,” Rodrigo said.

  “I am only asking questions related to my investigation.”

  Rodrigo pulled his daughter behind him and came close to Armada.

  “If I ever see you talking to my daughter again, I’ll kill you myself!”

  “I would be careful with your threats, Señor Maraion. Remember, you are speaking to a member of the Holy Brotherhood,” Armada said.

  It sounded hollow to Armada’s ears. He had no desire to imprison this man. He understood Rodrigo’s desire to protect his daughter, given everything that had happened. Armada needed to establish his authority, but he hated it.

  “I don’t care who you are! No man is allowed to speak to my daughter alone. And you can be sure that Martin Figueroa is going to hear about what you tried to do.”

  “Father, he wasn’t trying to—” Isabel began.

  “Let’s go, Isabel. Right now.”

  Rodrigo grabbed his daughter’s hand and yanked her out of the alley and back to the main road.

  Armada sighed. This was going to complicate matters.

  Chapter Nine

  October 1562

  Mencía hadn’t been ready for the cold. She wrapped her arms around her shivering shoulders and wished she had something dry to put on. The storm was passing, and the rain had ceased. But it proved to be the least of her worries.

  Her enemy now was the wind. It blew in great gales, pushing the last of the storm clouds away to reveal the bright stars and full moon of the night. It was easier to see now as she slogged her way through the endless mud, but the wind was merciless. It blew through her thin, soaked nightdress and into her very bones, leading her to shiver so hard her back was getting sore.

  Mencía had to give up travelling for the night and find somewhere warm to rest. She was well out of sight of the bay and La Herradura pueblo, so there was little chance someone would come across her in the night.

  Besides, she had to get warm. She gathered up brush and leaves and other debris from the forest floor and bundled it up against the sprawling roots of a carob tree, which blocked the worst of the wind if she lay flat on her back.

  It was a long night spent wondering if she would live to see the morning as she stared through the swaying branches of the carob tree. The wind flung the branches back and forth, often with enough force to break off a few of the numerous shrivelled bean pods. They would land a short distance away, crunching on the dried debris of the forest floor and making it sound as if someone were skulking about in the darkness just beyond. If there really was someone sneaking up on her, Mencía realised there was little she could do. Her fate, and that of her baby, was in God’s hands now.

  The next morning, Mencía awoke to streams of sunlight hitting her face from the east. The wind had died down, and the landscape was allowed to warm up. Mencía sat up and rubbed her sore back, thankful to be alive. But her triumph was fleeting.

  Her stomach reminded her that she and her baby were starving and very thirsty. In every direction, there was nothing but leagues of empty countryside full of bandits and highwaymen. There was only one way she was going to be able to eat today. And that was to return to La Herradura.

  In the daylight, Mencía could see she was high up on a stony outcropping that overlooked the ocean. She’d had no idea the night before how close to
the edge she’d come. A few more strides in the darkness would have meant a long fall to her death.

  Looking to the east towards the rising sun, Mencía saw the old stone watchtower, on the other side of which lay the pueblo. The next few hours were spent picking her way back through the mud and prickly weeds that had savaged her legs the night before, and soon the bay of La Herradura came into view once again.

  She could now see the full extent of the disaster of the night before. It shocked her. The bay was filled with the half-sunken hulls of galleons, surrounded by a thick layer of debris that hid much of the bay from view. And the bodies. Everywhere Mencía looked there were bodies. Most were still floating in the bay, bobbing facedown with the waves, while many had washed up on the beach in odd poses. Others had been thrown upon boulders by the storm’s violent waves and were now left to rot in the sun.

  There were people milling about on the beach. A few Spanish officers had survived, and they were busy organising the large contingent of galley slaves, as well as some locals, into a cleanup operation. A few of the slaves were already swimming about in the water, retrieving bodies and dragging them up onto the beach to be identified. Barely thirty or so had been retrieved thus far, and there were thousands left to go. The scale of the catastrophe was almost more than she could handle, compounded by a smell from below that caught the breeze and was like no other she’d ever experienced. Despite her hunger, it made her want to gag.

  Mencía composed herself and made her way down the canyon and into town. Everywhere people were racing about, collecting supplies and going back and forth to the beach to help out with the staggering cleanup operation that was just getting underway. Most villagers here were still dealing with the shock of what they found on their beach that morning. There was a good chance no one in town had any idea the fleet had even arrived the night before, as they were hunkered down in their homes to wait out the storm.

  Mencía wandered down a small lane that led to the main plaza. People dashed past her, carrying baskets of food, jugs of water, and stacks of blankets to help the men down on the beach. There were also sailors and galley slaves everywhere. Mencía didn’t recognise most of them but knew at least a few from her father’s ship must have survived. And if they did, they would recognise her. She needed to get out of her wet nightdress and into more normal clothes so she could blend in better. She didn’t want to be spotted. Not yet.

  Mencía kept her head down and pretended she was helping out with the effort until she came to a small garden area where washing had been hung up first thing that morning. On it was a dress, very simple and hand stitched, grey and tattered about the edges, with an apron and a head scarf. A modest peasant’s ensemble. It was perfect.

  Mencía snuck her way through the little gate made of pine branches lashed together with twine, then kneeled behind the fence and whipped off her damp underdress. She was glad to have the wet things off her body, but she was aware that she was almost naked at the moment.

  Mencía snatched the new dress off the line and pulled it over her head. The dress was large and roomy, but, much to her chagrin, it was damp.

  “That won’t do you any good.”

  Mencía froze, then turned to find a peasant woman staring at her. She was somewhere in her late forties, stocky and dressed in a modest brown dress with a large, soiled apron on the front. Her brown hair was tied in a tight bun on the back of her head, and she had a stern look of someone who has to work hard to survive. But there was a twinkle in her large brown eyes that suggested there was a kind heart behind it.

  “I just hung that up. It must still be wet,” the woman said.

  “I’m sorry. I…”

  “You must be from that shipwreck down on the beach,” the woman said in a kind tone. “Come in. I have some dry clothes inside you can have. You poor thing.”

  Mencía went inside with the woman, who introduced herself as Ana, and was given a dry set of clothes, which helped her stop shivering. Ana then gave her a bowl of hot onion soup, which Mencía gulped down.

  “I haven’t been down to the beach yet, but from what my Hector has told me, it’s quite a mess,” Ana said. “You must have been through such an ordeal last night.”

  “It was,” Mencía said.

  “Well, you finish that up, and we’ll get you down there. I’m sure you’re worried sick about your family by now.”

  Ana gazed at her with kind eyes, her hand on Mencía’s arm. Mencía was so grateful to this woman for what she’d done. But the last thing she wanted was to go down to the beach where she might be recognised.

  “I…I didn’t come with family.”

  “You’re here alone?” Ana asked. “No woman should have to travel like that on a ship full of sailors. Everybody knows what they get up to.”

  “I was all right.”

  “Yes, I suppose. I imagine if your father is as rich as that, none of those sailors would dare try anything.”

  Mencía froze. She looked at Ana, who rose to put some dishes away.

  “How do you know...?” Mencía said.

  “About your father?” Ana said. “I don’t. But that gown you left in my garden says everything. Satin fabric like that is quite expensive. And that stitching isn’t the sort a young woman like you could do at your age. It takes years of experience to do that. So I assumed your father bought it for you.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” Mencía said, relieved.

  “Now, go on. Finish up your soup, and we’ll get you down to the beach. I’m sure someone down there is worried about you.”

  Mencía wasn’t sure what to say. She had to get out of La Herradura, but she had no idea how to do that yet. She didn’t even know where her next meal was coming from.

  “Ana, thank you for everything. But I can’t.”

  “Can’t what, dear?”

  “I can’t go back there.”

  “Why not?” Ana asked.

  “I just…I just can’t. Please, I—”

  “Is there someone at home?” a man’s voice called in from the front door, startling them both.

  “Yes. What is it?” Ana asked.

  “Please open the door.”

  Ana made her way to the door while Mencía hid herself in the back bedroom.

  “I am Commander Alfonso Rodriguez of His Majesty’s royal fleet,” a bellowing voice said.

  It was a voice Mencía knew. Alfonso was a hunting friend of her father’s who had been on the galleon with them last night.

  “Well, good morning, Commander.”

  “My men and I are in search of a woman named Mencía Marañón, daughter of Alonso de Marañón. She has green eyes, brown hair, nineteen years old. She was wearing a white satin nightgown last night when one of the crew helped her to shore. And we found this on your back fence.”

  Alfonso held up Mencía’s wet underdress that she’d left on the back fence. She kicked herself for not bringing it inside.

  “Her father is very worried. If there is any chance she survived, he wants to know.”

  Mencía held her breath. So her father survived. And he knew that she had as well. Mencía should have left La Herradura when she had the chance. She could have been half a league away by now and well on her way back to Anton. And now she’d thrown away her last opportunity for freedom for what? Some dry clothes and a bit of hot onion soup.

  “No, Commander. I’m afraid I haven’t seen anyone like that here. I’ve never seen that dress before. I’m sorry.”

  Alfonso sighed. “Yes, very well. Gracias, Señora.”

  After Alfonso had gone, Mencía came out from behind the door.

  “Mencía, is it?” Ana asked.

  “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “Oh, yes, I did,” Ana said. “I don’t know what is going on here, but you obviously don’t want those men to find you.”

  “Why are you being so kind?” Mencía asked. It was a genuine question. She’d never met someone willing to risk so much for a stranger. It wasn’t
something she’d seen, growing up amongst the titled and elite.

  “Whatever your reasons for running, I’m guessing it has something to do with your baby,” Ana said.

  Mencía was startled.

  “Oh, don’t look like that. You can’t hide something like that from me. That dress isn’t supposed to be that tight around the middle. I should know—I stitched it,” Ana said, returning to cleaning her kitchen as if nothing had happened.

  “I trust a mother’s intuition more than I trust a man with a fancy rank,” Ana said. “Whatever your reason for hiding from them, it must be right. I’ve had five children of my own, and every one of them is alive today because I listened to my instincts.”

  Mencía was speechless. She’d never met anyone like Ana.

  “Now, you have some more soup,” Ana said as she filled Mencía’s bowl again. “You look famished. You have to eat enough for your baby as well, you know. You’ll be safe here for a while. At least until my Hector comes back tonight. He went down to the beach to help them drag bodies from the bay this morning. He’s the one who will take a little more convincing.”

  Mencía gulped down more of her soup and for the first time considered the possibility that her instincts might not have been mad after all.

  Chapter Ten

  October 1660

  Grief had always been a strange thing to Armada. It could be expressed in so many ways as to make it unpredictable, which made him uneasy. Two people, no matter how similar, could experience grief differently. One could become suicidal, another homicidal, while others just mourned for a while and moved on. Some showed their grief on their faces for all the world to see, while others hid it with such cunning you would never know they felt it at all.

  In crime investigations, it was almost impossible to deal with. But in his line of work, it was impossible to avoid as well. Perhaps it was because he had never felt grief like that for himself. Armada had bumbled through his life as a lone traveller, with few connections to anyone that were like the bond a family had. He was an outsider, peering in through the window of others’ souls, unable to understand what drove them.