Chapter 9
There was frost on the ground when they awoke at dawn, and a thick mist swirled around them, shrouding them in a cloud of icy moisture. Pedro and Juan shivered with cold, but the captain’s face was unnaturally pink, his forehead beaded with perspiration. Rafael bit back a complaint about his clothes being damp. At least he still had clothes, and for that he was grateful. His stomach growled, but he made no comment. Everyone was hungry.
“How’re you feeling this morning, sir?” Rafael asked the captain.
“Fit,” the captain lied smoothly. “And how about you?”
“Not too bad, sir,” Rafael replied with forced cheerfulness.
“Let’s go, then.”
“I think this is where we part company, gentlemen,” Juan said as he rubbed his arms to warm himself up.
Rafael stared at him in disbelief. “What do you mean? Where are you going?”
“Paco and I have decided to return to the coast,” Juan replied.
“And what, pray tell, do you intend to do there?” Captain de Cuéllar demanded.
“We will wait to be picked up by one of our ships. We have a much better chance of being rescued that way than by trudging through hostile territory in nothing but rags, Captain.”
“Oh, you think so?” the captain asked, his voice rising an octave in irritation.
“I do. And if more of our men wash ashore, we can help ourselves to their clothes before the locals get there. We might even come across some supplies. If we remain here, we’ll surely die.”
“Suit yourselves,” Captain de Cuéllar replied. “De Silva, will you be going with your friend?”
“No, sir,” Rafael replied.
“You’re a fool, Rafael,” Juan said. “You’ll die out here.”
“I wish you luck, Juan, but I’ll take my chances with the captain.”
Juan shrugged. “Go with God.”
“And you as well,” Captain de Cuéllar replied, and turned his back on Juan and Paco.
The two men walked away, disappearing into the mist within seconds.
“Do you really think we have a chance of survival, sir?” Rafael asked as he followed the captain through the dense wood.
“I think there are good Samaritans everywhere. We just have to find one.”
“And then?”
“And then, we’ll reevaluate the situation. Come, de Silva.”
The two men walked on. Rafael thought they were heading southeast but wasn’t sure. It was hard to tell in the mist. They had been walking for what seemed like hours before the mist finally burned off and brilliant sunshine streamed through the trees, the shafts shimmering like arrows of light shot from heaven. Rafael stared at the canopy above his head. He’d never seen such a phenomenon. In Toledo, the sun glared more than shone, and it was all around, a constant presence, not a fleeting brightness that felt like an omen of good things to come.
“There’s something magical about this place,” Rafael said. “Mystical. It’s almost as if we’re not alone in these woods.”
“We likely aren’t, but it’s not goblins you have to fear, but men with swords and lengths of rope. Keep walking, boy.”
Rafael trudged along. He kept an eye out for anything edible, but although he saw a tree with clusters of red berries, he had no way of knowing if the fruit was edible. Same went for the mushrooms. He’d spotted a few colorful caps peeking from the undergrowth. Mushrooms grew in moist, dark places, but some fungi were poisonous, and eating even one could result in death. He noted with some surprise that he was no longer as hungry. It was as if his stomach had given up on the idea of food. If only he didn’t feel so lethargic.
They stepped out of the woods and onto what looked like a dirt road.
“Shall we risk it, de Silva?” the captain asked. “Perhaps we’ll come to a village.”
“Where we will be welcomed?” Rafael asked, his voice laced with doubt.
“Maybe not welcomed, but hopefully not chased off with torches and pitchforks. Come.”
They continued to walk, moving along at a reasonable pace. After some considerable time, they spotted several people coming toward them. Rafael thought the captain would wish to hide in the woods, but he continued to walk and raised his hand in greeting. The party consisted of two young men, a woman, and an old man who was riding a donkey.
“Would be helpful if we knew some English,” the captain said wistfully.
“I speak a little of their tongue,” Rafael replied. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t readily admit to speaking English, since it would raise questions about his reasons for learning it, but at the moment, this clandestine knowledge was only of benefit if it helped them survive. The captain looked surprised but asked no questions.
“Hail them, then,” he instructed.
“Good morrow,” Rafael said shyly once the locals came within hearing distance.
“Good morrow,” the young woman replied civilly. “Where are you headed?”
“Is there a village nearby?” Rafael asked. “We are in search of food and shelter.”
The young woman looked like she was about to answer when one of the men, possibly her brother, shoved her out of the way and stepped forward. The other followed suit. The woman said something to them, but they ignored her and advanced slowly, knives drawn, teeth bared as if they were hunting a wild animal.
“Don’t kill them,” the woman cried. “’Tis a sin, no matter what the Lord Deputy says. The English wish to damn our souls.”
“Shut yer gob, woman,” one of the men growled without turning around. His eyes were fixed on the captain and the glint of gold around his neck. The captain drew back in alarm, but it was too late. The men charged, brandishing their knives. Rafael didn’t think he had any strength left, but a surge of energy flowed through his weak limbs and he dodged thrust after thrust, desperate to stay alive for another day. Captain de Cuéllar let out a cry of pain as one of the young men sank the blade of his knife into the captain’s thigh.
“Stop it at once, ye daft eejits,” the old man on the donkey commanded. “Murder is still a sin, last I checked. Seems yer sister is the only one with any sense ’round ’ere.”
The two young men drew back, hanging their heads like whipped dogs.
“Hand over yer valuables and ye will not be harmed,” the old man said. Evidently, last time he’d checked, theft no longer qualified as a sin. “Now!” he commanded, making it clear that if they refused, his sons, or whoever they were, would finish what they’d started.
Rafael had a few coins, which he handed to the woman. Captain de Cuéllar might have resisted had he not been wounded. He could barely stand, and a dark stain bloomed on his velvet breeches. The two young men relieved him of his doublet and purse and removed the thick gold chain from around his neck.
“No,” de Cuéllar protested when the woman hung the chain around her neck. “That contains a holy relic.”
No one paid him any mind, nor would they have even if they’d understood what the captain had said. A holy relic only made their find more valuable. The young men stared at the coins. They likely couldn’t estimate the value of the money, but they recognized gold when they saw it. De Cuéllar had more than forty golden crowns on him, as well as nearly one thousand ducats.
“Take off yer clothes,” one of the young men demanded. “Both of ye.”
“Leave ’em be,” the woman pleaded. “Let’s be on our way. Their clothes ain’t worth nothin’.”
“I want to see them humiliated,” her brother retorted.
“I think they’ve been humiliated enough,” the old man said, his eyes glinting with greed. “Now, ’and over the coins.”
The young man reluctantly handed over the loot, and the old man bit down on a coin and nodded approvingly. “Pure gold, this. Be gone,” he said, grinning at Rafael and Captain de Cuéllar. “It ain’t safe on the road,” he added with a phlegmy chuckle.
Rafael wrapped his arm around the captain’s waist and
helped him to walk. The captain moaned but clamped his teeth together and continued to hobble down the road.
“These people are savages,” he groaned as soon as they were out of earshot.
Rafael nodded, but didn’t reply. The Spanish had committed acts of savagery against his people for decades, but their pain didn’t count. To the grand inquisitors, they weren’t human or worthy of compassion. Perhaps the captain didn’t realize that his brethren were just as savage, perhaps even more so. The Irish had no pity for them because they were the enemy, Catholic or not, but the Spanish had turned on people whose Spanish heritage went back generations and who only wished to live in peace, which was much worse.
Rafael walked the captain over to a stout tree on the side of the road and helped him to sit down. His breeches were soaked with blood, but they had nothing to use as a bandage save their shirts. Rafael was about to tear off a strip of linen when the captain held up his hand, forestalling him.
“No, de Silva. You need your shirt. I’ll be all right.”
“Then allow me to clean your wound, sir,” Rafael offered. He collected some leaves and used them to cleanse the wound. Thankfully, it wasn’t deep, but it looked painful.
De Cuéllar rested his head against the trunk and shut his eyes. His earlier flush had been replaced with a grayish pallor that gave the captain the appearance of a day-old corpse.
“Does it hurt very badly, sir?” Rafael asked.
“It’s just a scratch,” de Cuéllar replied stubbornly. “It’s the loss of the necklace that pains me. It was precious to me.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Rafael said, his hand subconsciously moving to his belly. He still hadn’t moved his bowels and was secretly pleased that his hamsa was safe in his gut. It might remain there if he died, but at least no one would take it from him and melt it down for the gold, or throw it into the flames, fearful its heathen magic would infect them.
“Someone’s coming,” the captain said, his voice low.
Rafael whipped around, instinctively stepping in front of the captain to shield him from attack but breathed a sigh of relief when he saw a boy of about twelve walking toward them. The boy kept his gaze on Rafael as he approached, then shyly raised his hand in greeting. He carried a parcel wrapped in cloth beneath his arm. The boy slowed his steps as he came closer to the men, his freckled face tight with anxiety. Rafael stood his ground, curious what the boy might want with them. They had nothing left to take.
The boy gave Rafael a wobbly smile and placed the parcel on the ground, pointing toward it and inviting Rafael to open it. Rafael turned to the captain, who nodded his consent. Rafael carefully untied the ends and gasped in surprise. The parcel contained several slices of oat bread, thickly spread with butter. The boy untied a brown pouch from his hempen belt and handed it to Rafael. It was a skin full of milk. His smile widened. He seemed pleased by the stunned reaction of the strangers and indicated that they should eat.
“Thank you,” Rafael said.
The boy nodded, still smiling.
Rafael handed half the food to the captain and fell on his own portion. Bread and butter had never tasted so good, and he took a long swallow of milk to help the thick bread go down. He thought he could eat and eat but got full after a few large bites, his stomach having shrunk after weeks on half-rations and three days of starvation. He wished he had something to wrap the rest of the bread in to save it for later, but there was nothing, so he broke the slice in half and laid it buttered side to buttered side, then stowed it in the pocket of his breeches. He took one last sip of milk and passed the skin to the captain, who was still eating. He was taking small bites and chewing the bread slowly, savoring the unexpected bounty.
“Gracias, chico,” he said to the boy, bowing to him deferentially. The boy seemed to understand and nodded happily. He picked up the cloth the parcel had been wrapped in from the ground and held it out to the captain, then pointed to his leg. Captain de Cuéllar wrapped the cloth around his wound tightly, staunching the trickle of blood. He bowed to the boy again, and the boy smiled.
“Is there a village near here?” Rafael asked. It was unclear where the boy had come from or how he’d known they were there.
The boy nodded. “Just over that hill. Don’t go to the village. It’s not safe.”
“Where should we go?” Rafael asked.
The boy pointed southward. “That way. Godspeed.” He retrieved the empty skin and walked away, leaving the two men where he had found them.
“There are kind Christian people here, but they fear reprisal for helping us,” the captain said, his gaze warm with gratitude as it followed the retreating boy until he disappeared from sight.
“I suppose so, sir,” Rafael replied. He was deeply grateful to the boy, or more accurately to his mother, who must have sent the parcel; however, they were far from saved. “Sir, perhaps we should retreat into the woods so you can rest a while,” he suggested.
“No, we will continue on. I’m fine. Don’t fuss.”
“As you wish.”
They continued down the road in the direction the boy had indicated. It was slow going, with the captain hobbling along and stopping frequently, but Rafael supposed it was better than sitting around. Moving gave them a sense of purpose, and the food had done wonders not only for their bodies, but for their spirits as well.
Chapter 10
April 2015
London, England
Jo savored the crisp, fruity bouquet of the wine. It’d been a long while since she’d had a drink, not since before the explosion that had nearly killed her. She hadn’t been allowed any alcohol while she was on medication, so this was her first grown-up meal, as she thought of it. Rhys sat across from her, enjoying his own glass of Pinot Noir.
“You look happy,” he observed.
“I am. This is a lovely place.”
“I’m glad you like it. What do you think of the food?”
“Delicious,” Jo replied.
“How about something decadent for dessert?”
Jo shook her head. “I’m done. But you go ahead.”
“I never eat dessert by myself,” Rhys said. “It’s not the same when you can’t share the pleasure with someone.”
“All right, I’ll take a bite. I wouldn’t want to deny you the pleasure.”
“I knew you’d come around,” Rhys said with a grin. “The chocolate soufflé is exquisite.”
“Chocolate soufflé it is, then.”
Rhys was right, of course. The soufflé was so light, it dissolved on Jo’s tongue and she consumed more than she should have, but watching Rhys savor the sweet was a sensual experience in itself. This was a man who understood pleasure. A shiver of anticipation ran through Jo. Would he make his move tonight? They’d seen each other several times since she returned from Germany. Rhys had sent her flowers, taken her to lunch, and stopped by with home-baked goodies. He’d taken her for a walk in the park and they’d seen a film, but this was the first time their meeting had felt like a date and all her earlier reservations melted away. She didn’t want the evening to end and was glad she’d worn one of her favorite dresses. The ruby-red satin contrasted beautifully with her dark coloring and the plunging neckline revealed just enough to hint that this wasn’t just a dinner between friends.
When the bill arrived, Jo reached for her purse, but Rhys moved the leather folio out of her reach. “Absolutely not,” he said. “You’re my guest.”
“Thank you. Next one’s on me.”
“That’s a deal,” Rhys replied as he slid his credit card into the designated slot. “I’ll look forward to it.”
Having paid, Rhys helped Jo on with her coat before escorting her outside. The sky was full of stars, the crescent moon suspended just above the dome of St. Paul’s cathedral. The pavement was bathed in the glow of a nearby streetlamp, and they had the street entirely to themselves, as if they were actors who’d taken the stage for their intimate scene. Jo hesitated. This was the moment she’d been an
ticipating and dreading in equal parts. She peeked at Rhys from beneath her lashes, wondering how this night would end.
Rhys raised his hand to hail a taxi, and another shiver of anticipation ran through Jo. So, he was automatically assuming they’d go to his place. She didn’t mind; she was game. It’d been a long while since she’d been with anyone, not since before taking the assignment in Kabul. There’d been plenty of European journalists staying at her hotel, but no one she’d liked enough to take to bed, and the rampant gossip had put her off. It seemed that all they did was play musical beds and then boast of their conquests at the hotel bar, drinking their weight in beer and wine just to pass the time. Brief periods of excitement were punctuated by days of inactivity when nothing worth reporting in the West happened. She supposed that was why she’d gone into the mountains with Ali. She’d been looking for her own story, her own angle. Anyone could report on political unrest and suicide bombings, but no one had dared to photograph the poppy farms or go after the drug lords who supplied ninety percent of the world’s heroin. She’d nearly died for those photos, and the bitter disappointment of losing them when her camera melted in the explosion still rankled. It’d all been for nothing. A total waste.
A taxi pulled up to the curb and Rhys opened the door, holding it open as he leaned in to give Jo a chaste kiss on the cheek. “Thank you for a lovely evening, Jo,” he said, smiling into her eyes. “Sleep well.”
Jo had no choice but to get into the car. Rhys shut the door and gave her a friendly wave as the taxi pulled away, leaving her speechless with surprise and disappointment. He’d been as casual in their parting as if she were a business associate or an acquaintance. She had yet to figure out what she wanted from Rhys in the long term, but she was accustomed to being the one to decide while the other party waited in trepidation for her next move. Rhys had taken the choice out of her hands, and she didn’t care for the way that made her feel. Jo’s cheeks heated with humiliation as the pleasant fullness in her stomach suddenly turned acidic and made her feel ill. She wasn’t used to rejection and now realized how badly it stung.
The Betrayed (Echoes from the Past Book 7) Page 6