“We must find a way home, de Silva,” the captain whispered urgently when Rafael came to visit him in his chamber. He looked gaunt and exhausted, but his hollow cheeks were flushed, and his eyes burned bright with fever. The captain’s beard and hair seemed to have grown more silver since the day he’d washed ashore, and deep lines of worry were etched into his forehead. “Sir Brian is a good, God-fearing man, but thirty-odd men to house for the winter is a great burden on his resources. What has he to gain by helping us?”
“Must everything be about gain, sir?” Rafael asked.
“A leader must make choices, son. Sir Brian’s first responsibility is to his people. With winter coming, there’s little we can contribute. Field work is finished for the year, and the men are not accustomed to this unfamiliar terrain. All we are good for is chopping wood and telling stories by the fire,” the captain said with disgust.
“Surely we can make ourselves useful come spring. There will be fields to till and crops to plant,” Rafael argued.
“And what do you know of farming? Most of our men come from cities. They don’t know a hoe from a scythe. And the ones who come from farming families are too few in number to make any difference to the clan. No, my boy, we must find a way to return home. This isn’t our place, de Silva. This isn’t our destiny.”
Rafael didn’t bother to argue. He wasn’t about to engage in discourse about destiny with a man who could barely keep his eyes open, although he had his own opinion and it didn’t quite align with that of the captain. No man wanted to believe his destiny was to die a pointless, painful death. The men who had drowned when the ships smashed on the rocks or were beaten to death on the beach couldn’t have imagined such an awful end would be their destiny. Every man needed to feel that his life mattered and he’d been put on this earth for a purpose, a beloved son of a benevolent God, but perhaps there was no great plan and life was just a series of random events brought about by circumstance, luck, and one’s own ability.
“We must find a ship,” Captain de Cuéllar rasped.
“Yes, sir,” Rafael replied, placating the man. As the captain had rightfully pointed out, everything in life was about profit and loss, and no Irish captain in his right mind would agree to take a bunch of stranded Spaniards home at the onset of winter, especially when they didn’t have a handful of coins between them.
“I’ll leave you to rest, sir.” Rafael’s words were lost on the captain, who was already asleep, his breathing labored and his face tense even in repose.
Eager for a bit of solitude, Rafael left the castle and ventured beyond the wall and into the woods. Autumn had arrived, and the forest had changed from a verdant green to dazzling shades of crimson, persimmon, and golden yellow. The ground was covered with a thick quilt of fallen leaves, and the woods smelled pleasantly of pine and resin. Rafael walked along, enjoying the calming peace of the forest. The castle was sizeable, but there were always people about, and he couldn’t manage a few moments of privacy even in his own bedchamber. Julio behaved as if the room had been provided for him alone and treated Rafael like an interloper.
Rafael sat down on a fallen log and reached for the hamsa. He’d prayed many times since leaving home, but not once had he been able to speak the words out loud. He supposed it made no difference to God, but he felt an overwhelming need to raise his voice to the heavens, to feel free, even if it was only for a few minutes and in the middle of an Irish forest. Rafael stood and faced what he believed to be east. The prayer had to be recited in the direction of Jerusalem. He took three steps back, then three steps forward, as tradition demanded, then stood still with his feet together and began to speak. He kept his voice low, should anyone come upon him, but loud enough so that the words could be clearly heard by the Divine Presence.
“Blessed are You, Lord our God and God of our fathers, God of Abraham, God of Isaac and God of Jacob, the great, mighty and awesome God, exalted God, who bestows bountiful kindness, who creates all things, who remembers the piety of the Patriarchs, and who, in love, brings a redeemer to their children's children, for the sake of His Name.”
A deep peace settled over him as he continued to recite the prayer, which had several verses. The words flowed from memory, and for just a moment, he felt as if he were standing next to his father and brother, his head bowed and covered with the black and white tallit.
“He sustains the living with loving kindness, resurrects the dead with great mercy, supports the falling, heals the sick, releases the bound, and fulfills His trust to those who sleep in the dust. Who is like You, mighty One! And who can be compared to You, King, who brings death and restores life, and causes deliverance to spring forth!”
Deliverance. That was what he was truly praying for. His people had prayed for deliverance from persecution, but this time Rafael prayed for a way home. Had he had no one to return to, he wouldn’t care where he ended up, but there were people waiting for him, people who would be heartbroken should they never discover what had become of him and assumed that he lay in some unmarked grave in unconsecrated ground. There were no Jewish cemeteries in Spain, not anymore, but when a member of their community died, prayers were recited and rituals were performed so that the departed had all he needed on his journey to the afterlife, and to the Lord.
“Amen,” Rafael whispered as he finished the prayer and returned the amulet to its hiding place.
Having had his fill of solitude, Rafael turned his steps toward the castle. He’d almost reached the edge of the woods when he heard muffled cries and the unmistakable sounds of a struggle. The voice sounded feminine, and the screams were punctuated by ominous silences. Rafael grabbed a stout stick, in case he might need a weapon, and hurried toward the screams. He caught sight of something black and gleaming through the trees, and then a flash of blue. It took his brain a moment to comprehend what he was seeing.
Julio Fernández, clad in his black leather doublet, had a girl pinned to the ground, his hand clamped over her mouth to muffle her cries for help. He was fumbling with the skirts of her blue gown in a frantic effort to gain access. The girl’s face was turned away, but Rafael saw her bright hair. It had escaped its binds and lay in a tangled mess around her head, the color blending with the orange carpet of fallen leaves. Julio shifted his weight to push the fabric up to the girl’s waist. The milky white of her thighs contrasted sharply with Julio’s brown hand. The girl struggled desperately, but she was no match for a trained soldier. Julio yelped and yanked his other hand away from the girl’s mouth as she bit his finger and cried out again. She tried to throw him off, but Julio was too heavy.
“¡Cállate, puta!” Julio growled savagely as he ground her face into the leaves. “Shut up, whore!” he said again, this time in broken English.
The girl’s eyes were huge with fear and she whimpered like a wounded animal when she spotted Rafael among the tress. He could only imagine what went through her mind at the sight of him. Rafael held up his free hand to show her he meant no harm.
“Fernández, get off her. Now!” Rafael exclaimed as he advanced on Julio.
“¡Chingate! Fuck off!” Julio growled. “This is none of your affair.”
“It’s very much my affair.”
“I’ll deal with you once I’m done with her,” Julio panted. “Better yet, you can have her afterward. You’ll enjoy it, I promise,” Julio wheedled in the hope that Rafael would agree, and Julio could still take his pleasure.
Rafael raised the stick and brought it down hard on Julio’s back, making him cry out in pain.
“¡Hijo de la gran puta!” Julio hissed.
“Kindly leave my mother out of this,” Rafael replied hotly. “If you don’t return to the castle this minute, I will tell our host how you chose to repay his kindness. I doubt you’d survive long on your own, Fernández, assuming Sir Brian even allowed you to leave. If I were him, I’d string you up from the nearest tree.”
Julio gave the girl a vicious shove before getting to his feet and tucking hi
s exposed organ into his breeches.
“¡Qué guapona! Cuánto me apetece!” Julio said in a conciliatory tone, his handsome mouth twisting into an evil grin as he assured Rafael he’d enjoy the girl. “We can share,” he added.
Anger like molten lava flooded Rafael’s gut. He grabbed Julio by the upper arms and slammed him against the trunk of a nearby tree. “You will apologize to the lady and swear that you’ll never come near her again.”
“Apologize?” Julio laughed. “You must be joking. Look at her, she’s nothing but a worthless skivvy.”
Rafael drove a fist into Julio’s jaw. Julio let out a muffled gasp as his head smashed into the tree and a trickle of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth. He looked dazed.
“I said, you will apologize, you worthless piece of shit.”
“Fine, I’ll apologize,” Julio conceded when Rafael raised his fist again.
“You will not touch her or any of the other women ever again,” Rafael hissed.
“But I will touch you, puerco marrano,” Julio snarled. “You will pay for this, when you least expect to.”
Rafael’s blood ran cold at Julio’s well-chosen words. Puerco marrano was a vicious insult, usually reserved for Jews. Did Julio suspect, or had he simply used the most degrading slur he could think of?
“My apologies, lady,” Julio spat out in his accented English. “I will not trouble you again.”
“Now, go.”
Rafael released the man, but remained strategically positioned between Julio and the girl, giving her time to compose herself. Julio shoved Rafael as he pushed past him and glared at the girl. Clearly, he blamed her for getting caught. He staggered off, his hand pressed to his bruised face.
Once Julio was gone, Rafael turned to the girl. He’d seen her before in the kitchens but had never spoken to her. She was around fourteen, with hair the color of a ripe orange. She was small and slight, but generous breasts swelled above the bodice of her threadbare gown. Her wide blue eyes swam with tears as she adjusted her skirts and tucked her hair back into a cap that had come off during the struggle.
“Are you all right?” Rafael asked, averting his gaze to give her a moment to collect herself.
The girl nodded. “Thank ye, sir. I’m indebted to ye.”
“You owe me nothing. I beg forgiveness for the inexcusable behavior of my countryman. He won’t trouble you again.”
The girl nodded. Her heart-shaped face was pink with cold, or maybe with indignation, but her mouth stretched into a tiny smile. “May I know yer name?”
“Rafael de Silva, at your service. What is your name?”
“Eilis.” The girl didn’t offer a surname, but given her coloring, she had to be related to Sir Brian in some way.
“Are you an O’Rourke?” Rafael asked.
Eilis shook her head. “Oh no. I work in the kitchens. I’m naught but a servant, sir. O’Toole is the name.”
“Like the cook?”
“Aye. She’s my granny.”
“I see,” Rafael replied, but he didn’t see at all. He couldn’t quite understand the notion of a clan or why some people were O’Rourkes and others weren’t. Perhaps families with different names were formed when outsiders married O’Rourke women and remained on O’Rourke territory. For a brief moment, when Julio had pushed Eilis’s face into the leaves, he’d thought it might have been Aisling beneath him, since the girl resembled her somewhat.
“Ailish,” he pronounced her name experimentally, liking the exotic sound of it. To him, it sounded like ‘elfish.’ There was something elfin about her. She was like a wood sprite, completely at home in the forest, her coloring a reflection of the nature around her.
“How is it that ye speak English, Master de Silva? The rest of the Spaniards don’t,” Eilis asked as they began to walk back toward the castle.
“I learned the basics as part of my education, and I’ve picked up many new phrases since coming to the castle. I have no difficulty understanding some people, but there are others whose speech is beyond me,” he confessed.
“That’s because they’re not speaking English,” the girl explained. “That’s the Gaelic ye hear.”
“I’m afraid it sounds rather unpronounceable.”
“It can be,” she replied with a grin. “The English call it barbarous, which is in keeping with what they think of us. Ye must find this place very different from yer home.”
“I do, but there’s a unique sort of beauty here.”
“Really?” Eilis asked, surprised.
“I have never seen trees this color,” Rafael admitted as he looked up at the flaming canopy above his head. “The colors remind me of a roaring flame.”
“Because they’re red?”
“There are so many different colors within a fire: red, orange, yellow, and even blue. To me, no two trees look the same. Each one is a tiny flame, but from a distance, it’s like a great forest fire, the flames leaping against the vast expanse of blue.”
“When it’s not pissing down with rain,” Eilis said, making Rafael laugh.
“Yes, when it’s not pissing down with rain. Your country seems to have an inexhaustible supply of water.”
“It’s the rain that makes everything so green and lush,” she replied. They had reached the outer wall and Eilis turned to him. “I think it’s best if I go in by myself. I thank ye again. I won’t forget yer kindness, Master de Silva.”
“Good day to you, señorita.”
She grinned at him and headed toward the gate, leaving him to stare after her.
Chapter 29
By the time Rafael returned to his room, Julio had collected his few possessions and cleared off. Rafael was relieved, but Julio’s fighting words rang in his mind. He didn’t know the man well, but he’d spent his life on the lookout for those who could hurt him and his family. Julio was, in Rafael’s opinion, the worst kind of Spaniard: vain, cruel, and entitled. He was also vengeful. He wouldn’t forget the insult quickly, if ever. Julio Fernández would welcome a fight to release his aggression but being made to apologize to someone he believed to be beneath him was the greatest insult Rafael could have inflicted on him. Julio’s family was noble, and he had been raised like most noble Spaniards to believe that the rules of decency or laws of man didn’t apply to the likes of him. As a ranking officer in the Tercios, he believed himself to be military elite and wasn’t overly popular with the other men, who resented his high-handedness and sense of entitlement.
Rafael sat down on the bed and exhaled loudly. He’d made an enemy this day, and the day wasn’t done yet. He wouldn’t go to Sir Brian, but he would have to tell the captain what had transpired. Julio Fernández couldn’t be allowed to get away with what he’d tried to do. Justice had to be meted out. Julio had assaulted a defenseless girl, but he’d also placed all of them in danger. If Sir Brian found out what had happened, he would evict them, turning them out to face a harsh winter with no shelter or supplies.
A timid knock on the door distracted Rafael from his turbulent thoughts. “Come in,” he called, but no one entered. Instead, another knock followed. Annoyed, Rafael went to the door and yanked it open. Aisling was standing outside, a thick bundle beneath her arm.
“Good day to ye, Master de Silva,” she said shyly.
“Good day. Come in,” Rafael invited, stepping aside from the door, but Aisling shook her head and remained where she was.
“It wouldn’t be proper. I came to thank ye for coming to Eilis’s aid, and to beg a favor of ye.”
“Of course. Anything I can do.”
“Have ye told anyone?”
“Not yet, but I plan to inform Captain de Cuéllar. He can speak to Sir Brian. Julio Fernández will be punished, have no fear.”
Aisling’s face suffused with color and she shook her head vehemently. “Please, don’t. Just let the matter drop.”
“What? Why?”
“Once word gets out, everyone will assume Eilis has been despoiled. Her reputation will be rui
ned, her future destroyed. She says the man never—well, ye know—so no lasting harm was done.”
“I see,” Rafael replied. “If that’s what you wish.”
“It’s what I wish,” Aisling said, her eyes blazing with resolve. “There are other ways to punish someone.”
“All right, then. I won’t breathe a word.”
“Thank ye.” Aisling held out the bundle to him. “Please, take this.”
“What is it?”
“It’s my way of thanking ye. It’s a cloak. It belonged to my father. I thought, with the winter coming, ye’d need something to keep ye warm.”
“Thank you. That’s very kind. I will wear it gladly.”
“Good.” Aisling gave him a small curtsey and disappeared down the passage, leaving him somewhat bemused. He’d got the situation all wrong and could have done more damage than Julio had already inflicted. What a fool he was not to consider the consequences to Eilis, who was obviously important to Aisling O’Rourke.
Rafael shut the door and unrolled the bundle. The cloak was made of thick gray wool. It was a bit worn in places, and had been fashioned for a stouter man, but it was the best gift Aisling could have given him. He was always cold, and it was only October. Rafael carefully folded the cloak and hid it beneath his pillow, since he had no trunk or valise of his own. Any of his countrymen would be happy to find such a warm garment, and he had no intention of parting with it.
There was another knock. Perhaps Aisling had forgotten something or changed her mind about the cloak. Not waiting to be invited in, Alfonso entered the room.
“Buenos dias, Rafael,” he called out genially. “Seems Julio doesn’t care to share a room with you any longer. I’m your new bedmate.”
“I have no problem with you, Alfonso,” Rafael replied. He wasn’t sure how close a friendship Julio and Alfonso had, but Alfonso had proven himself to be an easygoing, unassuming young man. He’d been enlisted in the army by his father, who had great aspirations for his son’s military career, but all Alfonso really wanted was to play at dice and drink wine.
The Betrayed (Echoes from the Past Book 7) Page 15