Rafael shivered as he stepped outside. The sky was black as tar, the stars cold and distant. A biting wind moved through the trees, the leaves rustling ominously overhead. There wasn’t a glimmer of light from the cottages in the distance. The world felt deceptively safe, but the cover of darkness wouldn’t last long. Having eaten the night before, Rafael felt more energetic and hoped they’d cover a good distance this day. The prospect of help lit a tiny flame of hope in his chest, and for the first time in days, the fatalistic pall he’d been under lifted a bit, allowing him to breathe easier.
They parted company with Father Liam in the graveyard. “Go with God. I’ll pray for your safe passage.”
“God bless you, Father,” the captain replied. “I’ll never forget your kindness. Come, de Silva.”
Rafael followed, eager to get as far from the village as possible before the inhabitants began to wake. Neither man spoke until ribbons of light began to appear in the east, casting a blood-red glow onto the puffy clouds.
“Promises to be another fine day,” the captain said as he hobbled along. “We’d best get off the road now.”
They veered off into the woods but continued to walk parallel to the road to keep their bearings, stopping around midday to rest.
“Let’s see what the good father gave us, shall we?” the captain said as he unwrapped the parcel. There were four hard-boiled eggs and half a loaf of bread. “Here.” The captain gave Rafael half the food.
Rafael looked at it with longing. He would have happily eaten everything in one go, but he helped himself to one egg and returned the rest of the food to the captain. “Let’s save it for later.”
The captain nodded. “We’ll be glad of it in the evening,” he agreed.
After a brief rest, they set off again. Hour after hour, their surroundings remained the same—dense woods, endless sky, the smell of the sea carried on the stiff breeze, and an occasional whiff of chimney smoke. A fortnight ago, Rafael had still been aboard his ship, hungry, frustrated, and homesick. The mood had been bleak, the anger of the men palpable, but at least there had still been the prospect of home, of a reunion with family. Their loved ones would forgive them the humiliating defeat, glad to find their husbands and sons alive. But now, countless men were dead, either drowned or murdered, the survivors hiding in forests, freezing and starving. How quickly one’s reality changed, Rafael thought as he trudged along. His earlier burst of optimism seemed to have dissipated, leaving him feeling deflated once more.
He tried to imagine what Ramόn might be doing at that very moment, or Mira. What did she do from day to day? She probably helped her mother with household tasks. Perhaps she was sewing a new gown or embroidering a tablecloth for their future home. Rafael tried to summon an image of domestic bliss, but all he felt was a hollowness in the pit of his stomach, even when he allowed his mind to stray to their wedding night. The prospect of lying with Mira did nothing to lift his spirits, or any other part of him. Why didn’t he want her? There were women he found desirable. He meant them no disrespect, but his mind played cruel tricks on him, teasing him mercilessly until he thought he’d burst into flames with wanting to touch them. His fantasies were always followed by nagging guilt. It was a sin to touch oneself or spill one’s seed for any other purpose than procreation. Men of his faith didn’t use whores or lie with women outside of marriage. Mira would be his one and only if he ever made it back to her.
Rafael sighed. His father had said Rafael would learn to love his wife, as his father had learned to love Rafael’s mother, and Rafael had to trust his judgement. It was not as if he could choose his own bride. Marriages were arranged by the families, and once an agreement was struck, there was no going back. Breaking the betrothal contract would bring shame on the family, and on the bride. Rafael’s only way out was death, and he was dangerously close to being free. The grim thought made him chuckle.
“How’s your wound, Captain?” he asked, desperate to focus on something other than his melancholy.
“On the mend. That poultice you fashioned seems to have helped. Where did you learn to do that?”
Rafael didn’t reply. “Is that a lake, sir?” he asked as he peered into the gap between the trees.
Captain de Cuéllar followed Rafael’s gaze. “I believe it is. Looks lovely, doesn’t it?”
From their vantage point, the lake looked tranquil and pure, the pale-blue sky mirrored in its glassy surface. The water glowed in the autumn sunshine and the banks looked soft with thick grass.
“I think I’m going to have a bath,” the captain announced. “Join me?”
“The water’s probably cold,” Rafael replied, but the prospect of dipping into that perfect pool beckoned. He longed to feel clean and wash his filthy clothes. Of course, if he washed his garments, he’d have to sit around naked until they dried—not an appealing prospect. He mentally thanked his mother for her forethought in refusing to allow his father to circumcise him. His father had been adamant, his had mother said, but she’d threatened to drown the newborn Rafael in the bath if her husband didn’t give her his word that the child would remain untouched. After days of arguing, they’d reached a compromise. Señor de Silva would hold off until Rafael turned thirteen, then give the boy a choice. If Rafael chose to be brave, his father would perform the circumcision himself, since it’d be too late to have the ritual ceremony. If he chose the coward’s way, his father would respect his decision, if grudgingly. The same agreement had also applied to Ramόn.
On Rafael’s thirteenth birthday, his father had called him into his study. “Well?” he said. “Have you made a decision, son?”
“I have,” Rafael replied. His insides shook with trepidation, but he was going to stand his ground. He wasn’t doing this only for himself, but for Ramόn as well. If Rafael agreed to be circumcised, Ramόn wouldn’t be left with much of a choice. “I do not wish to be circumcised, Father—not if it will put my life in danger.”
“Coward,” señor de Silva spat out.
“There’s a difference between cowardice and self-preservation, Father. My death at the hands of the zealots will accomplish nothing. I’ll be just another dead heretic. If that makes me a coward, so be it, but the decision is mine, and I’ve made it.”
“It should never have been your decision to begin with,” his father growled. “I blame your mother, but what can you expect from a woman? All she cares about is the safety of her sons, but our lives are at the mercy of God. He decides whether you live or die, not you. If it’s his will that you should die for your faith, then you should be willing to lay down your life.”
I don’t see you taking any risks, Rafael thought angrily. Perhaps you’re not as willing to please your God as you say you are. “I’ve made my decision, Father,” he said instead and walked out of the study, right into the warm embrace of his mother.
“Thank God, Rafi. I was so afraid you’d give in to his bullying.”
“Perhaps Father is right and I’m nothing more than a coward who only wants to save his own skin,” Rafael said.
“You’re not a coward. You’re the bravest boy I know, and the smartest. Your father’s judgement is often clouded, especially when it comes to his children. Men are often more concerned with their pride than the safety of their loved ones. Come, let’s have a glass of wine in the courtyard to celebrate your birthday. Your father will come around in time. You’ll see.”
Señor de Silva didn’t come around and the subject came up again after Rafael’s betrothal to Mira. “You can’t go to your marriage bed uncircumcised. Mira will tell her mother, and then everyone will know that I was too much of a coward to circumcise my sons.”
Rafael felt the weight of his father’s expectations, and this time, he could hardly refuse. His father was right. Mira would tell her mother, and her mother would tell her husband. Within a day, everyone in their community would know, and the de Silva family would be treated with derision and suspicion. They might even be cast out if their faith came int
o question.
“All right, Father,” Rafael said. “When I return from England, you may perform the ritual. I will not object.”
“I will have your brother watch me do it. Perhaps it will inspire him to man up.”
“Perhaps,” Rafael had replied, hoping Ramόn would hold out until his own betrothal.
Rafael shook his head in disbelief as he thought back to that last conversation. He’d survived a shipwreck, the massacre on the beach, and days without food or shelter. It’d be quite amusing if after all that the lack of a foreskin was the thing that got him killed. “Thank you, mamá,” he said inwardly, and followed the captain toward the lake.
Captain de Cuéllar picked up the pace as they drew closer. It was now late afternoon and the banks of the lake looked like a good place to spend the night.
“Sir, is that a village?” Rafael asked, once the other side of the lake came into clear view.
Captain de Cuéllar stopped and peered at the opposite shore. “I believe it is. I don’t see anyone though, and there’s no smoke coming from the chimneys.”
“Perhaps it’s abandoned.”
“We’ll observe the settlement more closely once we’re in range,” the captain replied. “Perhaps we should wait for the cover of darkness before approaching.”
Rafael agreed and they settled in to wait. By unspoken agreement, they finished the food. If they met with danger, they’d need their strength to fight or run. If the settlement was deserted, they’d simply take shelter and go to sleep. Rafael savored the remaining egg and bread and tried not to fret about where their next meal would come from.
“God will provide,” the captain said once he finished his own food and brushed the crumbs from his breeches.
“Yes, sir,” Rafael replied, without much conviction.
The lake turned a lovely shade of lavender once dusk began to gather over the lonely settlement, but the wooden huts transformed into ominous black husks in the gathering darkness, the windows like empty eye sockets in featureless faces. No sounds of human habitation disturbed the silence of the evening, and no chink of light sliced through the gloaming.
“There’s no one there, sir,” Rafael said, and he stood, ready to cover the distance between their vantage point and the deserted settlement. “We can take shelter for the night.”
“Wait,” the captain said, holding up his hand. “There’s smoke coming from the farthest chimney.”
Rafael squinted into the distance. He couldn’t see any smoke, but now that the captain mentioned it, he smelled it. The aroma of burning wood filled him with longing. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt truly warm and fully dry. Every morning, his clothes were damp with dew and he woke up shivering and covered in gooseflesh.
“We’ll proceed cautiously and see who’s there,” the captain said.
They followed the shoreline of the lake until they approached the nearest hut. The houses were abandoned, the thatch roofs rotted through, and the hearth stones crumbling. There was an unpleasant smell of decay. The hut closest to the woods was surprisingly intact and a thin curl of smoke rose from the chimney. The shutters were firmly in place, but Rafael thought he could just make out the glow of a flame through a crack in the wood.
“Perhaps we should leave,” Rafael suggested in a whisper.
“And pass up the chance of a warm fire?” the captain replied, smiling. “We will make our presence known and see what happens.”
He approached the hut and knocked softly on the door. There was no answer at first, but eventually the door opened a crack and a frightened face stared at them from within. Then the door was yanked open and two more curious faces appeared behind the first man. The occupants of the hut were clearly Spaniards and their relief was palpable.
“Gentlemen, may we come in?” Captain de Cuéllar asked.
The three men stepped aside, allowing the captain and Rafael into the hut. The men were as bedraggled as Rafael and the captain. Their clothes were in tatters and they looked hungry and worn out. But they were alive, and they were comrades-in-arms.
“Captain Francisco de Cuéllar and Rafael de Silva, at your service,” the captain said, bowing stiffly.
“Julio Fernández, Pedro Serrano, and Alfonso Pérez of the Santa María de Visón,” Fernández announced. “You’re welcome to share our shelter, señores.”
After the initial introduction, the men exchanged basic information, eager to discover more about their new companions and to share their stories. Rafael learned that the three men were older than him by a few years. Pedro Serrano and Alfonso Pérez were common soldiers, but Julio Fernández held the rank of cabos de escuadra in the Tercios, an elite infantry unit. As a corporal, he outranked the other two men, but with the arrival of Captain de Cuéllar, he had to step down as leader. Pedro Serrano and Alfonso Pérez seemed genuinely welcoming, but Julio Fernández had a watchful air about him that wasn’t lost on the captain, who addressed Julio when he spoke as was due his rank.
Rafael remained quiet, happy to allow the captain to do all the talking. Instead, he sat down by the fire, holding out his hands to the flames. He had never been so happy to feel the gentle caress of heat on his extremities. He edged closer and eventually the fire warmed him through, making him feel drowsy. The captain continued to converse with the men, sharing the details of their shipwreck and escape from the beach, but Rafael was hardly listening. Their story was similar to his own, and he had no desire to relive the suffering of those first few hours when he’d thought death was imminent and was frightened out of his wits.
“De Silva and I are going to Chieftain O’Rourke’s territory,” the captain explained. “We were told we’d find assistance there. Come with us.”
Pedro Serrano and Alfonso Pérez glanced at Julio Fernández, who answered for all of them. “We can leave at first light.”
“I would like to clean up before we go,” the captain replied. “The lake looks inviting.”
The men agreed to bathe first thing in the morning, so they could look more presentable when they arrived at their destination. Feeling warm and snug, Rafael had no desire to wade into icy water, but the captain was right, they looked like a band of convicts rather than soldiers of Spain.
Rafael’s eyes burned with fatigue, but he wasn’t ready to go to sleep, so he studied their companions from beneath hooded lids. With his patrician features and decisive manner, Julio Fernández fit the part of ranking officer. Pedro Serrano had the thick body and short neck of a born fighter, his ham-sized fists as intimidating a weapon as any sword. He appeared to give Julio his support, but there were several times when his eyes flashed with annoyance at something Julio said and he ventured to disagree with him, doggedly proving his point.
The only one of the men Rafael warmed to was Alfonso Pérez. He had a face like a potato, his doughy features not enhanced by large, protruding ears. His small, dark eyes glowed with good humor and he didn’t seem to notice the undercurrents between Julio and Pedro, or maybe he simply chose to ignore them. Alfonso smiled at Rafael when he caught him looking and rolled his eyes in response to Julio’s cocky remark. He wasn’t thick, just not interested in vying for control, something Rafael understood only too well.
“Well, I’m for my bed, gentlemen,” Captain de Cuéllar said. “I can barely keep my eyes open.”
“Goodnight, Captain,” the men replied, and took their places on the floor. Within minutes the small hut was filled with the sounds of slumber and Rafael allowed himself to drift off, comfortable in the knowledge that he was safe, at least for the night.
Chapter 19
It had taken three days of hard walking to finally reach the lands of Sir Brian O’Rourke, but as Father Liam had predicted, they had been welcomed as friends. A young lad they’d met on the road had escorted them to the chieftain’s home, which was grander than anything Rafael had expected to find in the middle of such wilderness. The castle was built of gray stone, its circular tower rising above the crenelated batt
lements of the curtain wall. A gentle slope lead to a shimmering lake on one side, and dense woods and treacherous bogs encircled the castle on the remaining three sides. The castle wasn’t as large as some Rafael had seen in Spain, but it looked formidable.
Sir Brian himself came out to welcome the men. His hair must have been a violent shade of red in his youth, but now it was streaked with gray, as was his ginger beard. He wasn’t a tall man, but his wide shoulders and barrel chest gave him the aura of a man who’d stand his ground and not back down from a fight. Sir Brian’s bright blue eyes shone with compassion and admiration as he beheld the survivors, who were barely standing upright after days of walking on empty stomachs, sustained by nothing more than water from the streams that crisscrossed the heavily forested land.
Sir Brian was accompanied by a younger man, whose auburn hair, blue eyes, and solid build proclaimed him to be an O’Rourke. The man wore a long tunic over woolen hose and scuffed leather boots, attire the Spaniards would normally associate with a peasant, but his sword was a thing of beauty, and he clearly held a position of respect. An elderly priest, introduced as Father Joseph, stood to Sir Brian’s right, and translated his speech into Latin for the benefit of the Spaniards. The priest was a tall, cadaverously thin man with wispy white hair that fringed his egg-shaped skull. His beaky nose reminded Rafael of a vulture feasting on the remains of a dog he’d seen once when walking outside the walls of Toledo.
“Welcome, gentlemen,” Sir Brian said, smiling warmly at the men. “A few of yer countrymen have already found their way to Casa O’Rourke. They’re enjoying their stay.” Sir Brian laughed at his own wit and pointed to the auburn-haired man. “This is Kieran O’Rourke, my nephew and the captain of my guard.” He didn’t say anything more about the man, but the implication was clear. They were uninvited guests, there only by the grace of Sir Brian’s generosity, and they had better behave. Sir Brian smiled and continued. “Ye lot look in need of sustenance, and a wash wouldn’t do ye any harm,” he added, wrinkling his pointy pink nose.
The Betrayed (Echoes from the Past Book 7) Page 10