The Betrayed (Echoes from the Past Book 7)

by Irina Shapiro

  “Not of dying, no. My one regret was that my children would be ashamed of me. They’d have to live with my disgrace for the rest of their days. My execution would have robbed them of their honor.”

  “Why was the sentence not carried out?” Rafael asked. “I mean, I’m glad it wasn’t, sir,” he added, embarrassed by the clumsy question.

  “I thought they’d hang me the day after the tribunal, but for some reason, the powers that be decided to wait. Perhaps they wished to make an example of me at a later date. I spent nearly two months in the brig, awaiting my fate. And then the ship went down in the storm and many good men died, while I was washed ashore and given another chance.”

  “Is that what this is?” Rafael asked. He hadn’t meant to sound sarcastic, but he couldn’t muster the same optimism as the captain, whose resolve seemed unflappable.

  “Never lose hope, Rafael. We will survive this. We will return home, you and I.”

  “How can you be so sure, sir?”

  “I have faith. Great faith.”

  “What was in your locket?” Rafael asked.

  “It was a holy relic. That locket had been passed down from generation to generation, from father to son. It held a splinter from the true cross, Rafael. That bit of wood had touched the body of our Savior.”

  Rafael nodded. He strongly doubted the bit of wood had come anywhere near Jesus Christ, but wisely chose not to point that out. “You must be heartbroken to have it stolen from you.”

  “I am. I was going to pass the relic to my oldest son, but maybe it will bring salvation to the woman who took it. I must trust in the will of the Lord. Perhaps my family has held on to such holiness long enough.”

  “You’re very generous of spirit, sir,” Rafael replied.

  He admired this man, perhaps because he was so different from his own father. Rafael loved his father and wished only to make him proud, but señor de Silva didn’t have the courage or faith of the captain, despite his refusal to leave Spain and seek a safe harbor for his family. He was a man who lived in perpetual fear, dreading every knock on the door and praying daily for a reprieve from discovery, believing that God kept him alive as a reward for his stubbornness. Rafael understood something of his father’s perverse nature, but it also angered him and incited secret rebellion in his breast. Captain de Cuéllar believed his God would save him because his God was merciful and forgiving. Señor de Silva feared his God would condemn him and turn away from him in his hour of need if he tried to save himself and those he loved.

  “I’m not generous, nor have I lived an unblemished life, but I try every day to be the best man I can be. That’s the only way I can be at peace with myself. Now, go to sleep, young de Silva. You need your rest, and I need mine. Tomorrow is another day, another trial of faith and courage.”

  “Goodnight, sir,” Rafael said and curled into a ball. I wish I had your courage, he thought as he drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter 14

  The day was bright and sunny, the kind of day Rafael would normally rejoice in, but the trilling of birdsong and the sun shining through the thick green canopy overhead only made him more desperate. They’d been wandering around for days, hungry, tired, and cold. Their only hope of survival lay in the goodwill of strangers, and that was thin on the ground. The captain assured Rafael that his wound felt infinitely better, but he had difficulty getting to his feet and could barely walk. And where were they walking to, anyway? Rafael asked himself glumly. It wasn’t as if they had a destination.

  Rafael felt a familiar pressure in his abdomen and excused himself to attend to private business. He hadn’t moved his bowels since swallowing the hamsa, so he’d need a moment. He squatted behind a thick trunk. It didn’t take long, since there was barely anything in his stomach. Rafael pulled on his breeches and retreated to the creek to wash his hands. He cleaned the amulet thoroughly and admired it for a moment, secure in the knowledge that the captain couldn’t see what he was doing. The bright blue opal glittered in the sunlight, winking at him like a playful eye. He wished to keep the charm close, to take it out when he felt despair to remind himself that God was watching over him, but given what had happened to the captain’s possessions, there was only one thing to do. He placed the hamsa in his mouth and swallowed it with a handful of water. He hated to do it, but what choice did he have? Rafael returned to the captain.

  “It’s time we were on the road,” Captain de Cuéllar said and turned in the direction they’d been walking the previous afternoon.

  Rafael didn’t bother to ask questions. The captain didn’t have answers, and it was senseless to keep pointing out the perils of their situation. They had to keep moving. Perhaps Juan had been right to return to the beach, Rafael mused as he walked next to the captain. Juan and Paco could be aboard a ship, heading back to Spain at this very moment. Or they could be dead, lying on the beach, their remains picked over by hungry crows. He supposed he’d never know what became of his friend, and the thought saddened him. It would’ve lifted his spirits to discover that Juan had been rescued and was on his way back to his wife and child.

  They walked the whole day, stopping periodically so the captain could rest. His face was a sickly shade of green, his breathing labored and shallow.

  “Perhaps we should stop for the night,” Rafael suggested, but the captain shook his head stubbornly.

  “We keep going.”

  It was only when the purple shadows of twilight began to pool between the trees and the first stars appeared faintly in the sky that they saw the square tower of a church. The captain smiled and pointed toward the building. “We go there.”

  Rafael trudged along after him, terrified of what they’d find within. What if there were more corpses displayed for the entertainment of the locals? He was at the end of his tether, and if it weren’t for the captain’s endless faith, he might have given up by now and found a peaceful place to die.

  The church looked gray and solid in the dusk, its windows aglow with candlelight. The heavy wooden door was closed but not locked, and the two men entered on silent feet, fearful of the reception they’d get. The inside smelled of wood, incense, and candlewax, achingly familiar smells that nearly brought tears to Rafael’s eyes. He didn’t believe in Christ the Savior, but he’d attended mass since he was a small child as part of his family’s quest to appear Christian. He’d enjoyed the singing and the pageantry of the Church since the rituals of his own faith were always conducted in secret. As he followed the captain down the nave, Rafael wondered if his life would have been different if he believed in Christ.

  A young priest knelt before the altar, his head bowed, his face illuminated by the flames of two thick candles that bracketed the altar. He appeared to be deep in prayer. He crossed himself, rose to his feet, and turned when he heard their approach. The priest’s smile faltered when he realized he wasn’t in the company of his parishioners, but he held his ground. Rafael thought they should leave before the priest called for help, but Captain de Cuéllar continued to advance toward the altar, his gait painful and slow.

  “Bonum vesperum,” the priest said, hailing them in Latin. “Sani salvique.” Good evening and you’re safe, the priest had said. Could he be trusted? The captain seemed to think so.

  “Thank you, Father,” he replied in Latin. “We would be most grateful for your assistance.”

  “Come,” the priest said and beckoned for them to follow him into the vestry. “You can’t be seen here. It’s too dangerous.”

  The vestry was surprisingly spacious and nearly empty of furniture. There was a bench against the wall and a small table with what appeared to be the parish register on it. A brass candlestick with a tall white candle stood next to the register but wasn’t lit. The priest used his own candle to ignite the wick and invited Rafael and the captain to sit on the bench as he stood facing them.

  “My name is Father Liam,” he said. “May I know your names?”

  “I’m Captain Francisco de Cuéllar, and this i
s Rafael de Silva,” the captain answered for them both in halting Latin. “We were shipwrecked north of here just over a week ago. We are in desperate need of aid, Father.”

  The priest nodded. “You must be tired and hungry.”

  “That we are,” the captain agreed.

  “Stay here. I will return presently.”

  The priest closed the door behind him, but it was only when Rafael heard the scrape of a key in the lock that he thought the offer of help might be a trap. “He’s locked us in, Captain. He means to turn us over to the mob,” Rafael whispered.

  Captain de Cuéllar leaned against the wall and stared at the candle flame, his face impassive. “He is a man of God, Rafael. Have faith.”

  My people have been persecuted by men of God for centuries, Rafael thought bitterly. Pardon me if I don’t have faith in the clergy.

  Rafael walked over to the door and tried the knob. The door wouldn’t budge. It was made of solid wood, fitted with iron hinges. But even if they managed to force the door, they had nowhere to go. They hadn’t eaten since the bread ran out and Rafael felt too weak and too hungry to keep walking. He couldn’t begin to imagine how the captain managed to keep moving.

  “How’s your wound, sir?” Rafael asked.

  “It pains me, but it’s on the mend.”

  “Really?”

  The captain shrugged. “It’s what I’d like to believe.”

  Both men tensed when they heard stealthy footsteps approaching the vestry. They seemed to belong to only one person and Rafael exhaled in relief. The priest unlocked the door and came in, shutting the door firmly behind him. He had a basket slung over his arm, the contents covered with a piece of cloth.

  “Please,” he said, motioning them toward the table. He moved the register to the bench and displayed the contents of the basket. There were two small loaves of bread, several slices of ham, a hunk of cheese, and four apples. There was also a skin of beer. Father Liam gestured toward the food. “Enjoy,” he said.

  Rafael tore his loaf in half and filled the middle with pork and cheese. His father would have been horrified to see what he was eating, but at this moment, he didn’t care. He was desperate for sustenance, and if he had to fill his belly with pork and cheese, he would do so with pleasure. Rafael took a bite and rolled his eyes in ecstasy. Captain de Cuéllar smiled at him and took a bite of his own meal. They ate in silence, passing the skin between them until all the beer was gone.

  “You can sleep here tonight, but you must leave before first light. The villagers will kill you if you’re discovered,” the priest said with brutal honesty. “They’re under orders to kill all the survivors of the Armada. Many of your countrymen are already dead.”

  “Is there anywhere we can go where we’ll be safe?” Captain de Cuéllar asked.

  “You must get to O’Rourke’s territory. Sir Brian is a good Christian man who’s no friend to the English. He will help you.”

  “And how far is it to O’Rourke lands?’ Rafael asked.

  “It’s several days’ walk from here. You must stay out of sight if you hope to reach safety,” Father Liam admonished them.

  “Thank you, Father,” the captain said.

  “It is the least I can do,” the young priest replied. “I will come back and rouse you before dawn. Now, take your rest. You look like you need it,” he added ruefully.

  There was nothing to lie on but the narrow bench, so both men opted for the floor. They lay side by side on the hard stone. The vestry was cold, but not as cold as sleeping in the woods would have been and they were grateful for this small comfort. Their bellies were full, and for the moment, they had hope.

  “Goodnight, de Silva,” Captain de Cuéllar said. “Today has been a good day.”

  “Yes, sir,” Rafael replied. Perhaps their luck was finally turning.

  Chapter 15

  April 2015

  London, England

  Quinn checked on the scones and turned off the oven. She’d never been someone who enjoyed baking, even though her mum had baked every Sunday while Quinn was growing up, but since they’d moved into the new house, she’d discovered a sudden desire to pursue new hobbies. Some she enjoyed, like entertaining, and others she detested. Puttering about in the garden was at the top of her list of dislikes. It was much like dusting—as soon as you finished, new dust settled, and new weeds sprang to life days after a patch had been weeded. Quinn took the tray of scones out of the oven and set them on the worktop to cool.

  The doorbell chimed precisely at eleven, and Quinn hurried along the corridor to let Jo in. She had been pleased when Jo rang and asked if she could come round, so Quinn had promptly invited her for tea and scones. She’d always liked elevenses. It was the perfect time of day to enjoy a cup of tea or coffee and have a little something to tide one over till lunch. And it was a time when no one else would be at home and she and Jo could enjoy a nice chat. Alex had gone down for his nap a half hour before and would hopefully sleep until at least noon.

  “Something smells amazing,” Jo said as she stepped into the house. “Is Rhys here?”

  Quinn laughed. “No, I take full credit for the wonderful smell. I baked us fresh scones.”

  “Did you make them from scratch?” Jo asked.

  “Yes. It’s not that difficult once you get the hang of it. First time I baked scones, they could have been used as missiles.”

  “You really are a marvel,” Jo said. It was a compliment, but the words were tinged with sarcasm, which Quinn chose to ignore.

  “Hardly. I just have a lot of time on my hands these days.”

  “What about the case you’re working on?” Jo asked as she followed Quinn into the kitchen.

  “Most of the work happens in my head,” Quinn confessed. “Once I know what to look for, I try to find facts to support what I already know to be true.” Quinn poured them both tea and transferred the scones to a pretty plate.

  Jo accepted the tea and reached for a scone. “How do you do it, Quinn?” she asked.

  “Do what?”

  “Handle the artifacts.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “It’s not like going through some dusty old records. It’s personal. It’s painful.”

  “I admit, at times, it’s more than I can handle, but I find satisfaction in being able to tell the stories of people who can no longer speak for themselves. Have you never handled an object long enough to learn its secrets?” Quinn asked.

  “I’ve unwittingly picked up items that had belonged to the dead several times, but I couldn’t hold on to them for more than a few minutes.”

  “Why is that?” Quinn asked. She could understand Jo’s reluctance to see into the past, but the way Jo winced when she spoke of holding the objects made her think Jo’s reaction was influenced by something more than mere distaste.

  “I couldn’t take the suffering. You must have a high tolerance for physical pain.”

  “I’m not sure I follow,” Quinn replied, confused. Experiencing the suffering of the individuals she saw in her visions often left her gutted, but the pain was emotional, not physical.

  “Don’t you feel their pain?” Jo asked, staring at Quinn over her half-eaten scone.

  “Not physically, no. Do you experience physical pain?”

  Jo nodded. “I do. When I was eleven, Dad took me to the hospital, and we went down to the mortuary, where a postmortem was in progress. I was told to wait in the pathologist’s office. The deceased’s belongings were on the desk, in a plastic bag. I knew I wasn’t supposed to touch anything, but there were these cufflinks, and they had an interesting design—very unusual. I took one of the cufflinks out of the bag to get a better look.”

  “What happened then?”

  “I felt a searing pain in my side. It was like nothing I’d ever experienced before. I cried out and dropped the cufflink. It took a few minutes for the pain to finally subside, but my side felt sore for hours afterward.”

  “And you think you felt the p
ain of the deceased?” Quinn asked, still trying to wrap her mind around this interesting development.

  “The man who owned the cufflinks had been attacked while he was walking home late one night. He was stabbed in the side. He bled to death,” Jo replied, her voice flat.

  “Did it ever happen again?”

  “A few times. I tried on a ring that had belonged to my aunt, my mother’s sister, June. She died of a heart attack at forty-six. I touched a pocket watch that had belonged to our neighbor’s grandfather. His Spitfire went down over the Channel in 1942.”

  “My God,” Quinn said, watching Jo with renewed interest. “Your ability is different than mine, and different than Brett’s. Brett and I never really talked about it, but I think he would have mentioned experiencing excruciating physical pain. He saw, not felt, of that I’m certain.”

  “The pain frightened me so much, I learned to avoid picking up anything that might have belonged to someone who died. People don’t like it when you touch their things, or objects that belonged to those they loved, so I found it surprisingly easy. I haven’t had an episode since my teens.”

  “Fascinating,” Quinn said. “I suppose that makes your gift more powerful.”

  “Powerful or not, I have no desire to make use of it. I prefer to look at my subjects through a lens. It affords me a degree of emotional detachment.”

  Quinn nodded. That didn’t surprise her in the least. Jo seemed to crave emotional detachment the way others craved intimacy. Quinn couldn’t imagine going through life keeping everyone at arm’s length, but she had no right to judge. She’d had a very different experience growing up.

  “Let me see it,” Jo said suddenly.

  “See what?”

  “I want to see the charm you found in Ireland.”

  “Jo, the person it belonged to was crucified.”

  “I know. I need to see if it will happen again, now that I’m older. I’ll hold it for just a second.”