The Betrayed (Echoes from the Past Book 7)

by Irina Shapiro

  Quinn set down her coffee cup and followed Jo out of the office. She unlocked the car and they got in, silently buckling their safety belts. Quinn pulled away from the curb, her eyes scanning the oncoming traffic. “Home?” she asked.

  “Home.”

  Jo leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes, sending Quinn a silent plea not to ask any questions. Quinn seemed to understand and drove back to London without ever bringing up the letter that was burning a hole in Jo’s bag. She deposited Jo in front of her building and left after a brief, “Ring me later.”

  Jo sighed and walked toward the entrance. For some reason, she felt as if she were walking to her own execution, but then again, that was the way Ian Crawford had always made her feel, so really, this was normal.

  Chapter 55

  December 1588

  Leitrim, Ireland

  Rafael spent the next few days walking the razor-sharp edge of acute fear. Every time someone called his name or even looked at him for a second too long, he imagined that they knew his secret. He’d casually strolled through every part of the castle, peering into every corner, every stone crevice, and every crack in the wood to see if the charm might have fallen in there somehow, but he found nothing. All he saw was stone worn smooth by endless feet, wood darkened by time, and the dirt that blanketed the yard. If he’d dropped the hamsa in the yard, it’d have been trampled into the mud, which would be the most desirable outcome, but if he’d lost it in the castle, or on the battlements, someone must have found it, and that someone now knew that there was a heretic among them.

  Facing east as he stood on the battlements, Rafael tried to pray, but the words wouldn’t come. He had no right to ask God for help or forgiveness. He’d broken one of God’s laws and had lain with a woman who wasn’t his wife. Worse, he’d given himself to a woman who wasn’t of his faith. Had God forsaken him? Had He abandoned him to his terrifying fate? How long would this torture go on before he was discovered and ousted in front of everyone? Tears of terror stung Rafael’s eyes, but he blinked them away. He was a soldier, even if he’d never seen battle. He had to be brave, but he felt like a frightened child who longed only to be told that everything would be all right and the punishment for his transgression wouldn’t be too severe.

  “Dear God, I beg for your forgiveness,” Rafael finally managed to whisper into the wind. “I was weak. I was frightened. I was lonely,” he added under this breath. “I will accept whatever punishment you have in store for me. I should have been stronger. I should have known better. I should have had more faith.”

  Rafael turned back to Alfonso before the other man could notice anything was amiss, but Alfonso wasn’t looking at him. He was sitting with his back to the parapet, his gaze fixed on the blood-red slash of a winter sunrise. The sky shimmered with glorious color, the frost on the treetops reflecting the crimson rays and setting the forest alight. It was an awe-inspiring sight, and a frightening one. The clouds glowed like molten lava, the fiery sky apocalyptic in its strange beauty. It filled Rafael with foreboding.

  “Come, let’s go break our fast,” Alfonso said once their watch was over. “I can’t feel my toes. I hope there’s some hot broth left.”

  Rafael followed Alfonso along the wall and down the slippery steps. They hurried across the bailey and made for the kitchen, the only place in the castle where they could get warm. Despite fires that burned day and night, the castle was bone-chillingly icy, and the men slept ten to a chamber to conserve wood and to share the body heat that kept them from waking stiff with cold. A wood-burning brazier was used in the great hall instead of the great hearth that devoured firewood like a hungry beast but did little to warm the huge chamber. The food was rationed, and although not ravenously hungry, the men were never truly satisfied.

  Rafael sighed with pleasure when the welcoming warmth of the cavernous kitchen enveloped him in its embrace. He was half-frozen after spending two hours on the wind-blown battlements. His feet were numb, and his hands were red and chapped, since he didn’t have any gloves. He held them out to the fire and the blessed warmth began to spread through him, starting with his hands and moving to his tense shoulders and stiff knees.

  Mary set cups of steaming broth on the trestle table and gave each man a thick slice of buttered bread. Alfonso immediately tucked into his portion, but Rafael wrapped his hands around the warm cup and bowed his head, inwardly thanking the Lord for the food. After breakfast, he’d go to sleep for a few hours. He was tired, and there wasn’t much for him to do anyway.

  He finished his meal and followed Alfonso out of the kitchen and toward the stairway to their bedchamber. Alfonso was unusually reticent, and was asleep within moments, his gentle snores rumbling through Rafael’s head and lulling him to sleep.

  He was woken from a deep sleep by shouting from the yard below. The temperature in the room was arctic and his sleepy brain told him to ignore the noise and remain in the relative warmth of the bed, but the cries grew louder and more urgent. Rafael swung his legs over the side of the bed, swore eloquently when his stockinged feet touched the icy floor, and shuffled toward the window, pressing his nose to the thick frosted panes of mullioned glass. Had the English finally decided to attack? The thick glass made everything look wavy and distorted, so Rafael yanked open the narrow window, shivering with cold as he craned his neck to see what was amiss.

  Alfonso was next to him in moments, his breath warm on Rafael’s neck as he peered over his shoulder. “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know,” Rafael replied. “I can’t make out what they’re saying.”

  The men turned away from the window and pushed it shut. Rafael grabbed his cloak while Alfonso threw a blanket over his shoulders. With no cloak of his own, he wore the blanket in its place to keep warm when outside.

  “Let’s go,” Rafael cried. The two men hurried down the stairs and erupted into the snow-covered yard, which was heaving with angry men. Captain de Cuéllar was shouting for the men to stand down, but his commands were ignored as the men elbowed him out of the way. Someone was at the center of the melee, but Rafael couldn’t see anything over the heads of the others.

  “What’s happening?” Alfonso cried as he grabbed José by the arm to get his attention.

  Wild-eyed, José ignored Alfonso and raised himself on his toes, desperate to see what was going on.

  “Stand down!” Captain de Cuéllar roared as he tried in vain to push through the crowd.

  “Disperse immediately!” Kieran O’Rourke shouted as he led his men into the yard. They were armed with muskets and swords, the sight of which quickly sobered the heaving mob of Spaniards, who didn’t understand the command but had no trouble interpreting its tone. “Step aside,” O’Rourke ordered.

  The men quieted and allowed Captain de Cuéllar to pass, moving aside to reveal Julio Fernández, who was lying on the ground, curled into a ball. His face was battered and his breathing shallow. Blood trickled from the side of his mouth and his stare was fixed on the tips of the captain’s boots. His lips moved almost soundlessly, but Rafael could just make out the words of a desperate prayer.

  “What’s he done?” Alfonso demanded of the nearest man.

  “He tried to make contact with the English.”

  “Why would he do that?” Rafael asked, stunned.

  “Why do you think, you fool?” José growled. “He was going to betray us all in return for his freedom.”

  “Why?” Alfonso cried, staring at Julio as if seeing him for the first time.

  “Because he’s a filthy Jew!” José spat out the words as if they burned his mouth. “Paco and Juan cornered him in the tunnel. He had a white handkerchief on him and a heathen Jewish amulet. He was going to use the handkerchief to signal his surrender and the charm to protect him from harm. He’s a heretic and a traitor.”

  All the blood drained from Rafael’s face as the man’s words sank in. Julio had his hamsa, and he’d been accused of being a Jew.

  José clapped Ra
fael on the back when he noticed his stunned reaction. “Don’t worry, de Silva, he never made it. The passage was blocked, so we are safe for now.”

  “Has he admitted to trying to contact the English?” Alfonso asked.

  “Of course not. Said he only wanted to see how long the tunnel was, but you can’t believe a word a Jew says. They’re all lying pigs and will say anything to preserve their worthless skins. He’s going to pay for this, that’s for sure.”

  “How do you know the amulet belongs to him?” Alfonso demanded.

  “The girl confirmed it,” José replied.

  Rafael followed his gaze to see Aisling standing in the doorway, huddling into her thick shawl. Her face was set in hard lines, but her eyes glowed with fierce love when her gaze met Rafael’s shocked stare.

  “She said she saw him praying over it on the battlements. He tried to deny it, of course; accused her of being a whore and a liar.”

  “I can’t believe Julio Fernández turned out to be a Jew,” Alfonso mumbled as he pulled Rafael away from the crowd. “Just goes to show you—can’t trust anyone. He looks like one of us, but all along he was a heretic, a Christ-killer. We were defeated because of the likes of him. Maybe he summoned the storms with his amulet and brought disaster on the great Armada. It’s all his fault,” Alfonso cried, suddenly incensed by the magnitude of Julio’s betrayal.

  “You’re right, Alfonso, what befell us is all his fault,” Pedro cried. “He cursed our mission. Thousands died because of him. Kill the Judas!” he shouted, and the cry was picked up by the other men, who surged toward Julio, ready to tear him limb from limb.

  “No!” Rafael mouthed. “No!” He was trembling, unable to comprehend what was happening. The men shoved him out of the way as they bore down on Julio, who was crying and pleading with the men who had been his friends only an hour ago.

  “It’s not mine,” he babbled, his voice tearful and terrified. “I found it, I swear. I thought it might be worth something.”

  “Shut up, you lying piece of shit. The girl saw you. She has no reason to lie,” one of the men shouted. “She’s Sir Brian’s niece, the man who gave you food and shelter, you godless fiend.”

  Rafael tried to block out Julio’s screams as the blows rained on his head and body.

  Alfonso grabbed him by the shoulders. “Get hold of yourself, man. We’re all in shock, but we’ll deal with him. He’ll get what he deserves.”

  That’s what I’m afraid of, Rafael thought. He stumbled off to a less crowded corner of the yard and was sick, his insides turning themselves inside out with horror. He leaned against the stone wall and stared up at the winter-white sky. His stomach was still heaving, and his legs threatened to buckle beneath him, so he sank to the cold ground and buried his head in his arms. What was he to do? The honorable thing would be to admit the hamsa was his and face the consequences, but Julio had been caught with the amulet, and Aisling, who had every reason to hate Julio, had pointed the finger at him because she wanted to protect Rafael. He owed her his gratitude, and possibly his life, but how could he stand by and watch an innocent man be tried for being a Jew? And how had Julio come by the hamsa?

  Despite searching the castle high and low, Rafael was convinced he hadn’t lost it. He wasn’t that careless, not when his life was at stake. Had Julio stolen it? But when would he have had the opportunity? Like most men, Rafael slept in his clothes. Julio would have had to reach into his doublet, find the inner pocket, and extract the hamsa without waking Rafael, and that was assuming he’d known it was there in the first place. He’d taken off his clothes only once in the past week, when he’d made love to Aisling. She’d known he had it, had seen him with it.

  No, Rafael thought. Aisling is loving and kind. She would never steal from me or frame an innocent man. Julio wasn’t innocent, not where Aisling was concerned, but would she sacrifice him to save Rafael? She would. She had, Rafael realized, and his heart swelled with love and gratitude, which were quickly overpowered by gut-wrenching guilt.

  Rafael glanced toward the doorway where Aisling had stood only a few minutes ago, but she was gone, the doorway a gaping mouth in the face of the castle. He watched, with a surprising air of detachment, as Julio was led away by Kieran O’Rourke, having been rescued from the mob. Julio could barely walk, and his face looked like a slab of raw meat, but he was still alive, which was a relief.

  Rafael scrambled to his feet and made his way across the bailey, heading for the great hall, where the men would be assembled by now. He had to learn more before coming to a decision about Julio, and the only way to do that was to watch and listen. What had Julio been doing in the tunnel? Was the white handkerchief really a flag of surrender, or was it just an innocent square of linen? Had Julio anything else on him besides the hamsa? Rafael stumbled along, his innards twisting and his head aching with indecision. His fate was now irrevocably and inexplicably intertwined with Julio’s, and their combined sentence would be passed within the next few hours.

  Chapter 56

  The great hall was a roiling mass of bloodthirsty humanity. The Spaniards were up in arms, demanding that Kieran O’Rourke hand over the prisoner. The Irishman stood his ground, his arms crossed in front of his chest, watching the proceedings with great interest. He couldn’t have understood much of what was said, but he got the gist of it from the expressions of rage and calls for justice.

  “Ah, de Silva,” Captain de Cuéllar called out to Rafael. “Come here, please. We need a translator.”

  “At your service, sir,” Rafael replied as he approached the two groups.

  “Please explain to señor O’Rourke what has happened. He seems to have misunderstood what he saw in the yard.”

  “What exactly should I tell him, sir?” Rafael asked.

  “Tell him that two of our men thought Julio Fernández was acting suspiciously and followed him into the tunnel, which would have led him outside and straight to the English had it not been blocked. When apprehended, Fernández was in possession of the Jewish amulet. It was in the pocket of his doublet. They also discovered a stash of valuables he’d hidden behind a loose stone. It contained the items that had gone missing over the past few weeks, including Sir Brian’s cloak pin. It is our belief that Fernández stole the items in order to either negotiate for his release or fund his passage back to Spain. Had he exited the tunnel in full view of the British, the castle would have fallen and all within it would have been either taken prisoner or put to death.”

  The captain’s face was mottled with anger, but his eyes betrayed his pain. No commanding officer ever wanted to come face to face with treason or be forced to make a decision that would haunt him for the rest of his days. Rafael took a deep breath and relayed the captain’s speech to the best of his ability. Kieran O’Rourke listened patiently, nodding in understanding as Rafael stumbled over certain parts of the narrative.

  “Where is this devil charm?” he asked the captain.

  Rafael translated the question, and the captain extracted the hamsa from his pocket and handed it over to O’Rourke. The younger man held it up to the light from the window, studying the amulet intently. Rafael forced himself to glance away, afraid he’d reveal too much simply by looking at the charm. His hands trembled and he balled them into fists, silently praying for courage.

  “I’ve never seen the like,” O’Rourke said. “It’s a pretty thing, but playthings of the devil usually are. They entice and seduce. So, it’s sorcery and heresy this man is guilty of?”

  “Yes,” Rafael croaked. The word felt razor-sharp in his throat.

  “I see. He’s yers to deal with as ye see fit, Captain,” O’Rourke said, bowing slightly to the captain as a sign of respect. “I’ll tell my men to turn him over to ye. What will ye do with him?”

  “He wishes to know how Julio will be dealt with,” Rafael told the captain, all the while praying that Julio would simply be put under lock and key.

  “He’ll be executed,” José hissed.

 
“Now, wait a minute, nothing’s been decided,” Captain de Cuéllar interjected, but the men were no longer listening to him.

  “We’re going to show him what Spaniards do to traitors and Jews. We’re going to teach him and anyone else who thinks of betraying us a lesson they’ll never forget,” one of the men cried.

  “Please, have mercy,” Rafael pleaded, the words erupting against his better judgment. The evidence against Julio was damning, but not conclusive. There was no proof that he’d meant to parlay with the English or betray his friends, but the captain was right; had he walked out of the castle in full view of the enemy, they’d have had the means to breach the castle defenses and take everyone prisoner. Julio might not be a Jew, but he could have been the instrument of death, a traitor whose only aim was to save his own skin. He’d stolen from his friends and hosts, which could only mean he’d meant to run.

  “What? You feel sorry for the Jew? Are you a Jew lover, de Silva? Would you like to take his place?” The men laughed and gave Rafael a rough shove. “Get out of here. You’re still a boy. You don’t understand what it means to be a man.”

  “Get out, you sniveling coward!” one of the men bellowed and gave Rafael a push toward the door.

  Rafael walked away. He was horrified, but there was nothing he could do for Julio Fernández. These men would kill him even if Rafael admitted to owning the hamsa. Their blood was up and what they saw as a need for justice was really a desperate desire to turn their anger on someone who couldn’t fight back. It wouldn’t matter much if they killed one or two people. Given their collective fury, Julio Fernández would die regardless.

  Chapter 57

  Rafael stared in horror at the hastily constructed cross. It was made of rough beams and looked stark and sinister there at the center of the bailey. The men had worked feverishly, their fury urging them on. Captain de Cuéllar tried to reason with the men, but no one took any notice of his entreaties and some even went so far as to threaten to lock him up if he didn’t stop harassing them. Suddenly, his rank no longer mattered, and it was José Méndez who took charge. He stood off to the side, watching with a master mason’s eye as the men fitted the beam into the hole they’d dug in the ground and mounted the crossbar, urging them to raise it a little higher to make sure it was secure and would take the weight of a man.