He’d seen the truth of that. So when he and Jo had left the restaurant and stood outside in the cool April evening, Jo’s face lit by starlight and the golden glow of the restaurant’s windows, instead of inviting her back to his place, where he’d planned to make tender love to her, he’d hailed a taxi and bit his tongue when he saw the bitter disappointment in Jo’s eyes. She’d wanted to be with him, had planned on it. But as the taxi pulled away, Rhys had felt no regret. He’d wanted to sleep with her, very badly, but that wasn’t all he wanted. He wanted more, and the next time he became seriously involved with a woman, he’d have it.
He turned back to his desk, reached for his mobile, and opened Quinn’s text. He’d go to dinner, but all he could offer Jo at this stage was friendship. It was entirely up to her whether she decided to accept it. Rhys typed his response and sent it. It was time to get to work.
Chapter 21
April 2015
London, England
Quinn tucked Alex’s blanket around his sleeping form and tiptoed from the room. She longed to kiss him, but Alex was a light sleeper and she was afraid to wake him. Emma was already asleep, having read a story to Gabe. She still asked to be read to before bed, but from time to time she preferred to read a story herself. The stories were simple and used words that were easily accessible to a five-year-old, but it was a start, and Emma was proud to be able to read the stories out loud.
Gabe was already downstairs, two glasses of wine on the coffee table in front of him. Quinn sat down and propped her feet up on the table, sinking gratefully into the sofa. “I’m tired,” she said. Gabe handed her a glass of wine and she took a sip. “Thank you.”
“How’s your research going?” he asked. “Find anything useful?”
“I have, actually. Francisco de Cuéllar’s name pops up quite a bit in reference to the survivors of the Spanish Armada. Of course, most accounts are brief and impersonal, but I did find a copy of a letter he wrote, so I was able to get some sense of the man. Or maybe I had a sense of him already.”
“What’s he like, then?” Gabe asked.
“He’s precisely the type of man you’d want by your side in a crisis. He’s calm, levelheaded, surprisingly optimistic, and not someone who indulges in endless complaining or self-pity.”
“If I’m ever in a crisis, I hope I’m lucky enough to find someone as saintly as the captain to stand by me,” Gabe joked. “What about de Silva?”
“Rafael de Silva is not mentioned anywhere, but I can’t say I find that surprising. He was a foot soldier. I don’t imagine he wrote any accounts of his ordeal, or if he did, they haven’t survived.”
“Was he literate, do you think?” Gabe asked.
“Yes, he was. His father was a physician, and Rafael spoke some English. He was well educated.”
“Have you seen any actual indication that he was Muslim?”
“He reflected on not being circumcised, an omission his father resented bitterly. It seems Rafael’s mother had forbidden her husband to circumcise the boys for fear of persecution. The father tried again when Rafael was thirteen, but the boy refused. He eventually agreed to be circumcised in time for his wedding, to spare the family shame. I looked up the practice—khitan, as it’s called—and it’s usually performed when the child is seven days old but can also be done later. In some cultures, the khitan is performed when the boy reaches puberty. Also, I sensed hesitation about eating pork, but he overcame his reservations fairly quickly. Given his situation, I’d say eating pork was the least of his problems.”
“Do you think his family would have adhered to dietary laws in Toledo?” Gabe asked. “It would be noticed if the family avoided pork and reported to the local authorities. They would have been arrested and tortured.”
“Yes, there is that, unless everyone in their household practiced the same faith and they bought pork for show but didn’t consume it. Of course, if they threw the pork away uneaten, that would arouse suspicion as well,” Quinn pointed out. “Neighbors were only too happy to denounce each other, thinking their religious zeal would keep them safe from persecution.”
“It was a frightening time for people who weren’t Christian. There were countless Christians who were accused of heresy as well. People were terrified to set a foot wrong. The Inquisition did a fine job of obliterating decency and charity. Life became all about survival, and if betraying your neighbor bought you a reprieve, then the choice was obvious.”
“It sounds just like Nazi Germany, doesn’t it?” Quinn said.
“Hitler certainly didn’t invent persecution or genocide, he just improved on it,” Gabe replied with a wry smile. “He made it more efficient and had it meticulously documented.”
“Every time I delve into a new case, I’m reminded how lucky I am to live in this time and place. We’re so blessed not to have to worry about hiding our true beliefs and customs for fear of persecution.”
“Yes, we’re very lucky,” Gabe agreed.
“Gabe, do you ever wonder what type of person you might have been if you had lived in the past?”
“A very different one, I suppose.”
“Do you think you might have been a soldier?” Quinn asked. “I can’t imagine you raising a hand to anyone on someone’s orders.”
“We’re all capable of violence, Quinn.”
“Are you saying you could kill someone?”
“I’m saying that if I found myself in a situation where I had no choice, I’d most likely do it. Wouldn’t you?”
“I’ve never thought about it, but having seen what I’ve seen, I think murder is justified when it’s in self-defense. Sometimes, it’s kill or be killed.”
“Exactly, and I’m not a martyr. I would much rather live with the guilt than die with a clear conscience.”
“We like to think that we’re civilized and advanced, but we’re not so different from the people who lived hundreds of years ago, are we?” Quinn asked.
“I’d like to believe we’ve learned something from history, but there are certain human traits that will live on forever, such as the mob mentality. Most villagers would not have executed a Spanish survivor on their own, but when part of a mob, they felt absolved of responsibility for the crime. It’s always easier when you’re going along with someone rather than making the decision yourself.”
“Yes, you’re right. I hope we’ll never have to find out for ourselves how merciless a mob can be.”
“Your thoughts are turning awfully morbid,” Gabe said as he pulled her closer. “You’re safe, Quinn.”
“I know, but my ability to see into the past always brings me in contact with violence and death. I can’t say I blame Jo for not wanting to pry into people’s lives.”
“I think Jo would do well to see to her own life,” Gabe remarked.
“What do you mean?”
“They say the unexamined life is not worth living,” Gabe replied.
“Gabe, you hardly know her.”
“I know what I see, and what I see is a woman who runs away from things that make her uncomfortable. It’s only a matter of time before she runs from you.”
“I’m going to bed,” Quinn declared, setting her glass down with finality.
“Are you angry?”
“I’m always angry when you’re right,” she retorted. “I think I’ll spend an hour with Rafael now.”
“All right. I won’t disturb you,” Gabe promised, and reached for the remote.
Chapter 22
September 1588
Leitrim, Ireland
“What the devil is going on?” Julio growled as he stared out the narrow window of their bedchamber.
Rafael peered over his shoulder. The yard below was full of activity. People were streaming through the open gate and there was much talk and laughter among the women. The men greeted each other with more restraint, and although Rafael couldn’t hear what was being said, the conversations seemed amicable. Several people carried braces of large birds and there appeare
d to be a whole herd of sheep just outside the gates.
“They’ve come to kill us,” Julio cried. “That red-headed Satan has invited the whole village to come to our execution. Look how pleased they are at the prospect.”
“Sir Brian has offered us his protection. Why would he do that and then kill us?” Rafael asked. He tried to sound reasonable, but Julio’s fear had spread to him and settled in his gut like a stone. Having seen the frenzied slaughter on the beach, he no longer trusted anyone.
“Don’t be a fool,” he said to Julio and turned away from the window. “Why would they bring livestock and birds? Whatever is happening has nothing to do with us.”
“And you’d know, would you?” Julio snarled. “Maybe they mean to have a celebratory feast.”
Rafael didn’t reply. He left the room and went down to the kitchen. He’d ask Mary. She was a friendly girl who smiled easily and seemed eager to help.
The kitchen was a hive of activity. At least a dozen women were hard at work, plucking, chopping, stuffing, basting, and rolling out dough on the massive oak table at the center of the cavernous chamber. Mary sat next to another young girl, a large basin before them. They expertly plucked the geese and tossed the feathers into the basin. As soon as it filled up, a young boy emptied the basin into a sack and set it back in time for the girls to fill it again. Mary caught sight of Rafael and smiled.
“Good morning, señor de Silva,” she exclaimed, giggling as she tripped over the unfamiliar form of address. “Have ye come to help us?”
“Is something happening today?” Rafael asked. He tried to sound casual, but his voice quivered with anxiety.
“It’s Michaelmas,” Mary replied.
Rafael smiled and shrugged. He had no idea what Michaelmas was, or why there was such a sense of excitement in the air, but the women appeared to be preparing a feast for an army.
Mary shook her head in disbelief. “Do they not celebrate Michaelmas in yer country?” she asked.
“What’s she saying?” Julio demanded as he appeared behind Rafael. He looked pale and nervous, but not knowing what was happening must have been driving him mad.
“I think today is their Fiesta de San Miguel,” Rafael replied. He breathed out a sigh of relief. This had nothing to do with them. Everyone was excited for the feast day.
“Out!” Mistress O’Toole called out to the men. “’Tis chaotic enough in ‘ere without the two of ye underfoot.”
Mary giggled. “I’ll explain later. I’ve much work to do.”
Rafael gave Mary an informal bow and left the kitchen. Julio strode off toward the great hall, but Rafael decided to go outside. He was curious and thought himself safe as long as he kept to the fringes of the crowd. He stepped into the yard. The crowd that had been there earlier had dispersed for the most part, the men having gone inside. Some of the women still milled about, chatting and laughing. Several children chased each other across the yard, shrieking with laughter and earning looks of disapproval from their mothers. The younger children, some of whom still wore baby gowns, yanked on their mothers’ hands, desperate to join in the fun. One little girl broke free of her mother’s hand and took off after the boys, promptly falling into a puddle and getting her smock all wet.
“Stop keening like a banshee,” her mother admonished her. “Ye’ve got no one to blame but yerself, now do ye? And I don’t have a spare gown with me,” she complained, shaking her head at the state of her daughter, who was crying so hard she was all red in the face. “What am I to do with ye, ye silly lass?” She scooped up the child and walked away from the group of women, who continued with their conversation as if there hadn’t been any interruption.
Having lost interest, Rafael looked toward the gate to see if anyone else might be coming for the feast. A young woman dressed in a light blue gown walked through the gate and across the yard. She wasn’t wearing one of the strange headpieces the other women wore and her braid, which was as bright as a copper coin, snaked over her shoulder and came nearly to her waist. A basket filled with something shiny and black was slung over her arm. She caught Rafael staring and laughed at his ignorance, her blue eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Blackberries,” she said, holding out the basket so he could get a better look. “For the Michaelmas pie,” she added, as if that explained everything.
“I’ve never seen these blackberries,” Rafael replied, trying to repeat the name of the berries just as she’d said it.
“Here, try one.” She picked out a plump berry and held it out to him. It didn’t look appealing in the least, but it seemed rude to refuse, so Rafael accepted it and popped it into his mouth. It was surprisingly juicy and delicious.
“Best enjoy it while ye can,” the girl said, looking up at him impishly.
“Why?”
“Can’t eat blackberries after today,” she replied cryptically.
“What will happen if I do?”
“Satan will have pissed on them.”
“What?” Rafael asked, feeling foolish in the extreme. He must have mistaken her meaning.
“It is said that the devil was so angry, he pissed on a blackberry bush on the Feast of St. Michael, so it’s unwise to eat them after today.”
“That’s a strange story,” Rafael replied with a smile. She was having fun at his expense, but he didn’t mind.
“Oh aye, it’s true. But today, we must have blackberry pie. It’s special.”
“Why’s that?”
“On Michaelmas, a ring is baked into one of the pies. The lass who finds it will be wed within the year.”
“Do you hope to find it?” he asked.
The girl’s smile vanished, and it was as if a cloud had passed over the sun. “No, I don’t. Well, I’d best be getting on.”
“Wait, what’s your name?” Rafael called out to the girl, but she’d already disappeared into the castle, her braid flying behind her.
Rafael walked toward the outer wall and sat down on the steps leading up to the battlements. To some, it would feel strange to be someplace but not feel a part of it, but he was used to the feeling. He’d felt isolated all his life. Instead, he watched with interest as the men began to emerge from the castle, minus the braces of birds, and head toward the gate. Snatches of conversation drifted toward him, and after a time he deduced that Michaelmas was a quarter day and some of the men had paid their rents to their chieftain in food. Having done their duty to their lord, they were headed to the fair, where they’d sell their livestock and purchase supplies for the coming winter. Everyone seemed to be in fine spirits, and Rafael felt an unfamiliar peace steal over him. No one paid him any mind, so he enjoyed watching the comings and goings, eager to learn something about these people he found himself amongst.
“Sir Brian has invited us to the Michaelmas feast,” Alfonso said as he approached. “There’s to be roast goose and something called Michaelmas pie.”
“Yes, I know all about that,” Rafael replied.
“Never met a pie I didn’t like,” Alfonso said. “Or a feast, for that matter. Any occasion that calls for food and wine is all right in my estimation.”
“Whatever you say, Alfonso,” Rafael mumbled. He’d just spotted the girl in the blue gown, but she wasn’t looking in his direction. She was speaking to a dark-haired man who seemed to be angry with her. The man was considerably older than her and was well dressed, his velvet breeches and tunic setting him apart from the peasants who wore clothes made mostly of homespun fabric. The man gestured and Rafael caught the glint of gold on his finger. He must be someone of importance, he thought, still watching the altercation and wondering if he should come to the young woman’s aid. She shook her head stubbornly in response to something the man said and walked away, leaving him to look after her, his lips pressed into a thin line of displeasure, his hands on his hips. He shook his head in exasperation and disappeared indoors.
Chapter 23
Sounds of merriment spilled from the open doorway of the castle, along
with guests who needed a breath of fresh air or were desperate for the privy. Many never made it and relieved themselves in the first dark corner they could find, breathing out a sigh of relief and then returning to the feast to carry on with their eating and drinking. Through the open doorway, Rafael could see the servants bustling from the kitchen to the great hall and back, bringing platters of food and taking away empty platters, buckets of bones, and limp heads of geese that had been consumed almost whole. The wonderful smell of baking pies filled the air, making Rafael’s mouth water. Julio, Alfonso, and Pedro were all at the feast, along with the other Spaniards who were staying at the castle, but Rafael had made his excuses and retreated to his room once the feast began.
Last night, he’d fallen on his first meal after weeks of near starvation, but his body hadn’t been ready to handle such bounty. He felt unwell and had supped tonight on a slice of buttered bread and a cup of milk. He needed to take things slow and eat small, simple meals, or so his father would have said had he had a patient who’d presented with Rafael’s symptoms. The bread had helped him to feel better. It absorbed the bile his stomach produced and reduced the queasiness that had plagued him since last night’s supper.
Feeling stronger, Rafael had left the safety of the room and made his way to the battlements. He was surprised to see that there were no sentries posted at the gate or the watch towers. The gates were wide open, but no one was coming in or out. Rafael walked along the wall until he reached the side facing the lake. The glassy surface of the lake shimmered like silver in the moonlight, its banks bathed in the pale light that gave the scene an otherworldly appearance. Had someone told Rafael that was what heaven looked like, he would have gladly believed it, for the beauty of the landscape took his breath away.
He tried not to think of the beach at Connaught where he’d washed up a fortnight ago. Had anyone bothered to bury the bodies of the butchered men, or had they been left to rot? How could God sanction such a massacre and then lead the survivors to a place of such rare beauty, where the locals feasted as if nothing had happened only miles away from their home? How was a mere mortal like him to make sense of any of this, and what was he to do now? Captain de Cuéllar had left at dawn, determined to rendezvous with the ship that had pulled in for repairs down the coast. Would the stranded men be granted passage home, or would they be left here over the winter, a burden to Sir Brian and his clan, strangers in a strange land?
The Betrayed (Echoes from the Past Book 7) Page 12