The Errant Flock

by Jana Petken

  A boat was anchored at each end of the waterway. Garcia got into one of them and sat down, looked at his bloodied legs, and grumbled to himself. As the man rowed, he went over his plan again. On a wet day like this, there would be a greater chance of finding drunks and vagabonds at the coast than anywhere else he could think of. It was already mid-afternoon and would be dark within three hours. They would strike when darkness fell. He cursed the rain again. He couldn’t go back to Sagrat empty-handed, but it wasn’t going to be easy finding victims when everyone was probably scurrying for shelter under roofs.

  After getting off the boat, Garcia had to climb a small incline before reaching the entrance to the largest cavern. Inside, oil-lit torches and soft glowing campfires sat on shiny flat rocks which looked as though they had been polished. Around him, shadows stole across the walls, nebulous and eerily unfamiliar. Scattered throughout the cave were conical pillars rising up from the floor, and above his head, other pillars reached down from the ceiling like long arms fused into the stone.

  He blinked, adjusting his eyes to the brighter light, and then he scanned the enormous space, big enough to fit more than one hundred grown men. He walked past two men sitting by a campfire, and they nodded to him in recognition.

  “Where’s Alejandro?” Garcia asked.

  “Walk on. He’s in the next cavern,” the man told him.

  Nodding his thanks, Garcia took a step, and then he stopped with a thought that had just come crashing into his mind. He could order Alejandro to perform, not one, but two tasks. The duke and Alejandro didn’t know each other, and they would never meet. This was the perfect time to deal with another problem that was plaguing him, and Peráto would never have to know anything about it …

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  In the port of Sagrat, Diego Sanz huddled beneath an awning dipping in the middle with the weight of rainwater. What in God’s name was he doing here? he asked himself for the umpteenth time that day. He should be in the city of Valencia by now, sitting in front of a fire in a taverna, heating his bones with a rich wine, a bowl of fish broth in front of him. He would have found work within hours of arriving in the city, for the only thing he’d heard people talk about in the past few days was how important Valencia had become.

  People’s lives were going to change for the better in this new era of commerce and discovery, they had all agreed. King Ferdinand had granted licence to Valencia’s first real port only this year, turning the city into a busy trade centre. There were rumours of great construction sites being built at the edge of the sea to house ships undergoing reparations. He’d also heard that there were plans to build an entirely new fleet of vessels which would be sturdy enough to sail to the other side of the world.

  He could have boarded one of the many ships at anchor. He would have accepted even the lowliest of jobs. He wasn’t daunted by tales of sickness in the galleys, where men rowed until they dropped like flies. A life at sea was what he wanted and what he would have eventually.

  Looking about him, he realized what a small and insignificant place this was compared to Valencia. Sagrat’s port was nothing more than a fishing enclave holding a dozen or so small vessels that fished the waters between the mainland and the island of Mallorca, to the east. The boats were not suited to deep open waters and tended to cast their nets no farther than two leagues from the shore. It held no mysteries or adventures. It had nothing to offer other than a scattering of houses bordering the shoreline. Made of wood and stone, they were sturdier than the houses in the town and housed families who earned their living catching and selling fish, lobster, prawns, oysters, mussels, and eels to neighbouring towns, specifically Sagrat and its castle.

  Fishermen here had laughed at him when he’d asked for a job. These men had fished all their lives and been forced to give up their boats because of a drop in demand. “It’s the monarchy’s fault,” a man he’d met earlier this day had stated. “The kings are to blame for our hardships. They’ve scared most of the Jews away, and they were our biggest customers. They give Valencia money to enhance its port, but they forget about us poor fishermen. Our old boats are no match for the bigger vessels in the city. They can get to deeper waters and haul as much in a day as we can in a week. We’ll be lucky if there’re any fish left around here soon … or customers to buy them.”

  Diego wiped his wet face and grumbled. There was no real shelter here. The wind was picking up, and the rain was lashing down and hitting him from all angles. He looked out to the thunderous sea. Lines of tall waves with white crests visible even under a black sky were coming ashore one after the other and crashing noisily against the stony banks. White salty sea foam, spraying into the air like giant snowflakes, settled on the ground for just a moment and were then dispersed by rainwater. Boats were being pummelled against rocks, and they made loud snapping noises as timbers split and broke. This was one of the worst storms he’d seen in years. Some of the boats would be lucky to remain afloat.

  Standing up, he wrung the water out of his robe’s hemline. Thank God he’d found that convent, he thought. The nuns had saved the little girl and had rescued him as well. At the time, he’d not been too keen on wearing monk’s attire, but the robes had given him a decent covering for his head and body and had probably stopped him from freezing to death in his night tunic. Diego would never forget the sisters’ kindness or their shocked faces after he’d begged them to take the small child crying in his arms.

  It was rare for a parent to abandon a child. Children were precious to the Valencian people, who would rather starve themselves than see their sons and daughters want for anything. At first, the sisters had been reluctant to take her in, but they’d relented after he’d spun a heartbreaking tale about the death of his young wife, no other family to help him, and his inability to care for a daughter because he had no work. I’ll come back for her within a period of four weeks, he’d told them, knowing he probably never would.

  Diego walked into the taverna, stood just inside the door, and looked about him. Stepping aside, he let three men pass him on their way out, nodding to one of them. Disappointing, he thought. He knew that man. He might have been kind enough to offer him a pitcher of ale. He pulled his soaking wet hood off his head, closed his eyes for a second, and bathed in the lavish heat emanating from a blazing hearth fire. The smell of freshly cooked meat gave him a heady feeling. He shifted awkwardly from one foot to another, sniffing the air like a dog, and followed the path of a platter of pork and potatoes being served by a wench.

  At last, his eyes found Javier Ubeda, a fisherman Diego had known since boyhood. Grinning with pleasure, he called out and walked towards Javier’s table, laden with bread, cheese, a carafe of wine, and a fine joint of kid meat.

  Javier sat with a friend who seemed to eye Diego’s robe with both curiosity and humour. “You’re not a monk, are you? Where’s your bald patch?” he asked, pointing to the crown of his head.

  “A monk! Who, this strapping lad?” Javier said. “Rafael, this is Juan Sanz’s son Diego. They’ve got a farm on the plain. I’ve known his father for years. Diego here wants to be a fisherman. Isn’t that right, lad?”

  “I do, now more than ever. Our farm got burnt by marauders a few days past,” Diego told him. “Juanjo was killed.”

  “So it was your brother?”

  “He died trying to save our mule,” Diego said in a cracked voice. “We never did find that cursed animal.”

  “We heard about the fires and that a boy was killed. You have my condolences,” Javier said.

  Nodding his thanks, Diego said, “I suppose you heard about that family in Sagrat too?”

  “We did, and there’s not a person who’s been able to find rest since it happened. It’s not right, I tell you. People are scared to go to sleep without putting daggers under their pillows. Imagine an entire family being wiped out on the same night. They’ll never find those babies. No, they’ll be dead and buried or long gone from here by now. It’s a sad time we’re livi
ng in.”

  “We’re living in dangerous times,” Rafael added, “and the king doesn’t seem to care. He’s too busy conquering Granada from the moors with his Castilian wife to worry about us poor Valencianos and our troubles.”

  “What’s the duke doing about those murders in the town, lad?” Javier asked Diego. “I heard he sent the militia out and they returned with not so much as a whiff of the culprits. He needs to do more. His soldiers are no good to man or beast, if you ask me. All they seem interested in doing lately is arresting people for no good reason. They should be defending the likes of us, for we can’t defend ourselves.”

  “I’m sure they’re doing all they can,” Diego answered lamely. “David’s in the militia now. Did you know that?”

  “Your elder brother?”

  Diego nodded.

  “Well, tell him from me that the people here are scared. Did you hear about one of our carts being robbed?”

  “No.”

  “It was robbed of its fish – bastards! Fish! Only the foulest turds of the lowest scum would do something like that. It happened the morning after those terrible murders.” He gestured to Rafael. “We think the thieving swine are local. Don’t we?”

  “Got to be,” Rafael agreed. “The attacks are becoming more and more frequent, and the robbers seem to know exactly where and when to strike. They’re not pirates. We would know if they were. We don’t take our eyes off the sea. If a tick on a fly’s back floated in, we’d see it … My deepest condolences, lad. Your parents must be devastated, losing a son like that. Here, eat with us. Warm your bones.”

  Diego’s eyes brightened. His belly rumbled at the thought of food coming his way. “I think I will,” he said.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The taverna’s door burst open and banged loudly against the wall with a gust of wind. Antonio Marsal, a local man, staggered inside like a drunk, with glassy eyes and his tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth with exhaustion. His hands, pressing against his belly, were covered in blood and rainwater, colouring them pink. His ripped tunic looked as though a wolf had mauled it. His hair, bloodied and matted, dripped rose-coloured water onto his face, which was creased with pain, and into his wild, feverish eyes.

  Not looking at anyone in particular, he moaned words like a Latin hymn and made no sense at all, until finally he managed to utter a few brief sentences. “I’m dying … Help me … God, help me!”

  Many of the revellers were already on their feet. Some were shouting questions, others rushed towards him, and there were those who seemed to be rooted to their seats in violent shock.

  “They took them … Stop them … Get them back!” His outstretched bloodied hands grasped the shoulders of the first man to reach him, and then his legs buckled.

  “Lay him down!” someone shouted.

  “Who are them?” another asked.

  “Please save them … Outside … You have to save them. Marauders.” Antonio’s hoarse voice was almost inaudible.

  Diego watched the commotion and listened to the enraged voices soar with questions: Everyone wanted to know who did this to Antonio. Finally, a man whispered into Antonio’s ear and then put his own ear to Antonio’s lips.

  “The port has been attacked! It’s the marauders! They’ve got Miguel and Ignacio!” the man who’d just spoken to Antonio shouted. “They’re at the back of the tavern!”

  Javier, running towards the door, yelled over his shoulder, “Well, what are you all waiting for? The whoresons are not getting away with this!”

  Rafael and Diego joined the group of men heading for the door. Outside, they saw nothing but sheets of rain and mist coming in from the sea, but as the group strode farther along the street towards the corner of the building, a militia prisoner cart came into view. Striding towards it, they heard a faint high-pitched scream and horses whinnying, above the noise of rain battering the ground.

  The men from the taverna broke into a run. Diego surged onwards with the group until those at the front halted abruptly. From his position near the front, he could make out two men being dragged by their underarms onto the back of a cart by two cloaked men whose faces were hidden beneath masks of linen cloth. Then two riders brandishing swords appeared from nowhere. Their horses, panicking at the sudden appearance of the crowd, reared up. One of the riders lost his grip on the reins, and the horse, upon feeling itself free, struck out with its forelegs and then pounded the ground with its hooves.

  “Let them go, you bastards!” a man from the taverna screamed at the abductors.

  Some of the men picked up stones that were scattered on the ground, and others advanced on the cart, getting within arm’s reach of the horsemen.

  Undaunted by the crowd of men, the riders moved forward, slashing the air with their swords and panicking their horses even more by sawing harshly at the animals’ mouths.

  “If any one of you throws a stone and so much as grazes me, you’ll find your guts cut out and your entrails lying on the ground!” one of the horsemen hissed loudly. “These men are being arrested on the duke’s orders for the recent murders in Sagrat!”

  The group’s collective courage disintegrated at the mention of the duke’s name, and instead of advancing, they halted abruptly and then retreated in fear.

  Diego pushed his way to the front, enraged at the attack he was witnessing so soon after his brother had been killed. For the first time, he got a good look at the riders’ faces. Staring at one of them, his jaw dropped. He recognised the man … He’d know that scarred face anywhere.

  “They’re not militia! They’re marauders!” he shouted over his shoulder. Turning to the crowd behind him, he yelled. “The whoreson is lying! Come on!”

  Diego couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The men from the taverna were standing like statues, allowing their friends to be abducted by criminals. He was baffled, for in his mind, if all of them moved forward together, they would be able to pull the riders to the ground, disarm them, and then get the prisoners to safety.

  “Are you going to let them get away with this?” he shouted again. “Your friends are innocent! If you let these bastards leave here, you’ll never see Miguel or Ignacio again!”

  Amidst the chaos, the two cloaked men inside the cart’s cage had managed to secure their prisoners and reach the driver’s bench.

  Miguel and Ignacio lay on the cart’s floor and were strangely silent.

  The scarred marauder sneered at the crowd and then cackled loudly just before he gave the order to the cart driver to move along.

  Javier joined Diego at the front of the line. “What are you, a bunch of old wives?” he shouted at the other men. “They’re getting away. For God’s sake, we have to stop them!” From somewhere in the crowd, a stone was thrown. It hit the scar-faced man on the shoulder, and some of the men in the crowd gasped when he urged his horse towards them.

  “I’ll rip your bellies open if you hit me again. Take another step forward and it will be your road to hell!” he cursed, with his sword in the air.

  The cart, having been stuck for a moment in a mud puddle, managed to move at a sloth’s pace until it picked up speed on the road leading out of the port. The feeble-looking group dropped their stones and watched the cart’s fading torches dimming with each turn of the wheel, and as the reality of the situation struck the men, they began to trade insults. Diego listened. Their condemnation of each other seemed to be an attempt to cover their own guilt, he thought, feeling ashamed.

  “There were fifteen of us for God’s sake. We should have stopped them,” one man accused the rest of them.

  “Stopped them with what … stones? They had swords. Or were you too busy hiding at the back to notice the blades pointed at us?” another retorted.

  “That cart bore the duke’s crest, and that’s a fact. If we had seized Miguel and Ignacio, we’d all be hanged for treason before the week was out. Did anyone think about that?” another man asked.

  “You’re all a bunch of goat s
haggers,” an elderly man said, obviously disgusted. He then went home.

  Back inside the taverna, Diego tried to hear what was being said above the noise of what seemed like a hundred angry men screeching like wives, all at the same time.

  “In the name of God Almighty, shut up! Let Antonio speak before he takes his last breath!” Javier ordered.

  Antonio lay with his head on a man’s lap. His grey pallor and bluish tinged lips left no doubt that he’d be gone within minutes.

  “They were just sitting there waiting for us to come out. They grabbed the three of us. The cart had the duke’s seal.”

  “We know. We saw it, Antonio,” Javier said.

  “Miguel and Ignacio … didn’t stand a chance. They were in front of me. I tried to fight one of the bastards off, but he got me with his sword … I ran.”

  “You did well, my friend,” said Javier.

  “Did you save them?”

  “No, we were too late.”

  “I’m dying. Get me a priest!” Antonio, coughing up blood, weakly gripped Javier’s hand, and whimpered. “Oh God, I’m not ready.”

  The voices grew louder again. Javier raised his hand and silenced them. He looked again at Antonio’s gaping wound. “You’re dying all right. Someone, go get the priest!” he shouted without looking up. “Antonio, if he doesn’t come in time, confess your sins directly to God. That should be enough. We won’t listen.”

  Shortly after, Antonio died.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight