The Betrayed (Echoes from the Past Book 7)

by Irina Shapiro

  “José, please,” Rafael pleaded with the man. He no longer cared if he was accused of being a Jew lover or if his own loyalty was questioned. He had to do everything in his power to try to stop this madness. “Surely there are other ways.”

  José tore his gaze away from the cross and turned to stare at Rafael. His face softened for just a moment and he reached out and patted Rafael’s arm in a fatherly manner. “I commend your compassion and courage, de Silva. It takes guts to go against the majority, but you’re very young and you simply don’t understand the magnitude of Fernández’s betrayal.”

  “And do you understand the magnitude of crucifying a man?” Rafael replied hotly.

  “Only too well, but God wills it, Rafael. God wills it.”

  “And how do you know God’s will?” Rafael demanded, outraged. From the corner of his eye he could see the captain watching him with undisguised admiration.

  “He let His will be known to us,” José replied. He seemed to be brimming with conviction.

  “How?”

  “Do you know how many items Julio stole?” José asked, his eyes glinting with zeal. “Thirteen. That’s right—thirteen. Judas betrayed our Lord for thirteen pieces of silver. Fernández was going to betray us for thirteen pieces of gold. He’s the lowest kind of criminal—a traitor, a sellout, and a heretic. He will die this day, Rafael, so I suggest you shut your mouth and walk away before you join him on your very own cross.” José chuckled and smiled broadly at Rafael’s terrified expression. “I’m just joking with you, Rafi. Off with you,” he said, giving Rafael a playful shove.

  Rafael walked off without another word, but his insides burned as if he’d swallowed a ball of flame. Was this his fault? Was God testing him and daring him to declare himself?

  “Let it go, son,” Captain de Cuéllar said as he approached Rafael and laid a warning hand on his arm. “Julio Fernández deserves to die for his crimes. This is not an honorable way to execute a fellow soldier, but what he did isn’t honorable either. Besides, we can’t spare the wood to burn him at the stake, not with a siege in progress. The men have decided, and although I don’t agree with their judgment, I must respect it.”

  Rafael nodded. He was going to return to his chamber, but the captain gripped his arm, preventing him from walking away. “You must be here to bear witness. We all must. You don’t want to be accused of cowardice, son,” the captain said, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Not at this stage. Alea iacta est.” The die has been cast. Rafael shuddered at the choice of phrase. This wasn’t a game of dice, this was a man’s life.

  “Bring him out, lads,” José called out.

  Julio Fernández was dragged out from one of the outbuildings, where he’d been kept under guard by Pedro and Miguel. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the light and allowed himself to be frog-marched toward the center of the bailey, but froze, his eyes widening in terror when he saw the newly erected cross.

  “No,” he pleaded. “Please, no. I’m not a traitor. I stole the jewelry, but I never meant to betray anyone. I only wanted a place to hide it.”

  “And the Jew amulet?” José cried.

  “It’s not mine,” Julio sobbed. “I’m a devout Christian.”

  “They all are,” someone called out. “Lying comes easy to them. They’ll do and say anything to save themselves, those filthy cowards. And now we know that you’re one of them, and you will pay for your sins.”

  Julio looked around in panic as the men dragged him struggling toward the cross. And then they stopped, realizing that they hadn’t considered the practicalities. They couldn’t lift a grown man and hold him up while someone drove the nails into his wrists, all the while standing on a rickety ladder, which would need to lean against something solid enough to hold a man’s weight. They looked to José for a solution, and he offered one immediately, proving to the men that he was a born leader.

  “Take the cross down and lay it on the ground, lads. Tie the bastard to the cross and nail him down, then lift the cross and slide it back into the hole.”

  Reenergized, the men went about their task. They lifted the cross out of the hole they’d dug in the yard and laid it flat. Julio screamed and thrashed as they forced him down. He continued to beg for mercy while they men tied his ankles and wrists to the cross, but the ability to speak left him when he saw the hammer in Pedro’s meaty hands.

  “Wait,” José called out.

  Pedro stepped aside, his expression quizzical. “Have you changed your mind?”

  “Of course not.”

  Rafael watched in mute disbelief as José took the hamsa from his pocket. “Choke on it, you dirty Jew.” He pushed the hamsa into Julio’s mouth and pinched his nose with two fingers, forcing Julio to swallow the amulet. “Now, we are ready,” José said, and nodded to Pedro to continue.

  Julio shook his head, his dark eyes huge with fear. Tears poured down his cheeks and he tried in vain to fight against his restraints, but they were tied securely. A hush fell over the crowd as the men watched in horrified fascination as Pedro drew a sturdy iron nail from his pocket and held it against the tender skin of Julio’s wrist. A few looked away, but no one left, and no one uttered a word of protest.

  A bloodcurdling roar rose up when the first nail was driven into Julio’s elegant wrist. He began to shake violently, and a stream of vomit spilled from his mouth, the foul smell amplified as Julio let go of his bowels. By the time the men raised the cross and fitted it into the hole, Julio was no longer screaming. His head hung down, his chin resting against his shoulder. Crimson droplets of blood fell, as if in slow motion, painting the snow a violent red. No one moved. No one spoke. No one could find the strength to look away from the gruesome scene, which had been written and directed by them and their hatred. The minutes ticked by, but time stood still as the men watched their victim with bated breath. Julio was unconscious, but he wasn’t dead. Not yet.

  “You look like you’re going to be sick, Rafael,” Alfonso said at last.

  “This is not right, Alfonso.”

  “I agree with you,” Alfonso said. “He deserves a traitor’s death, not the honor of being crucified like our Lord. He should have been hanged. Even beheading is too good for the likes of him.”

  “It’ll take him hours to die, maybe even days,” José said, having overheard Alfonso’s comment. “It was important to prolong his suffering.”

  “Was it?” Alfonso asked sarcastically. “Being hanged is bad enough, I would have thought.”

  “Seeing him up there on the cross will serve as a warning to anyone who wants to surrender to the English. Besides, hanging is too good for filth like him. He doesn’t deserve our mercy,” Pedro said, still holding the hammer in his hand. He seemed to have enjoyed his role in Julio’s execution.

  “Whatever you say,” Alfonso replied, having lost interest in the discussion.

  “I never suspected Julio of being a Jew,” Miguel said, his gaze still pinned to Julio’s gray face. “Those bastards sure know how to hide in plain sight. It’s a talent they have.”

  “It’s sorcery,” José growled without turning around. “They commune with the devil.”

  “Which is why the Church burns them,” someone replied. “To make sure they get a taste of hell before they get there.”

  “We can’t afford to waste so much firewood. Every bit is precious,” José replied, suddenly practical.

  “I must find Aisling,” Rafael said as he began to back away from the men, but Alfonso stopped him.

  “You must stay here.”

  “I have no stomach for this,” Rafael whispered.

  “Rafael, you are a soldier of Spain, not a child. Anyhow, we’re almost done here. He’s not looking too good.”

  Please die, Julio, Rafael pleaded with the man silently. Die quickly, for your own sake.

  After a few more minutes, the men began to lose interest and the crowd started to disperse. Rafael staggered away from the spectacle, unable to bear the sight any longer. H
e couldn’t be around these men, men he’d talked with, dined with, and served with. They were animals, barbarians, who were rejoicing in the suffering of one of their own.

  The castle was deathly quiet as Rafael made his way to Aisling’s chamber. The door was locked, but she let him in after he called out to her. She took him into her arms and held him tight as he cried, stroking his hair and kissing his brow until he spent himself.

  “Ye must not let it break ye,” she said once Rafael began to calm down. “Men do horrible things when they’re scared, Rafael. Don’t give them reason to turn on ye.”

  “Aisling, I—”

  “Shh,” she said. “Lie down for a spell. Ye’ll feel better after ye sleep.”

  Rafael nodded into her shoulder and allowed her to lead him toward the bed. He lay down and she curled up next to him, her arm protectively around his midsection. He was asleep within moments, his mind desperate for respite from the horror he’d witnessed.

  Chapter 58

  May 2015

  London, England

  Quinn’s hand shook badly as she dropped the hamsa onto the duvet. It lay there, innocently glinting in the moonlight, a tiny piece of gold that had sealed Julio Fernández’s fate. Quinn had witnessed countless deaths, thanks to her unusual ability, but it never ceased to surprise her how brutal and bloodthirsty human beings could be. The Spaniards had been frustrated and scared, cornered like mice by a cat just waiting to pounce, but that was no excuse for what they had done to one of their own. Julio might have been an ass and worse, but he didn’t deserve the horrific death his countrymen had inflicted on him.

  At least it wasn’t Rafael, Quinn thought, as her heartrate slowed from a gallop to a trot and the shaking subsided. Poor Rafael. She could only imagine the guilt he’d felt, and the fear. And suspicion? Quinn wondered as she took a sip of water from the glass by the bed. It was entirely too convenient that the man who’d assaulted Eilis, called her terrible names, and threatened to get revenge on Rafael had been the man caught with the hamsa and the stolen loot. Julio might have stolen the valuables. He had admitted as much, but how had he come by the amulet? What were the odds that Rafael had lost the thing he held most dear and Julio Fernández had been the one to find it and keep quiet about it? Quinn shook her head in disbelief. No, that was no coincidence, as far as she was concerned. That was a set-up. Whether Aisling had wished to get back at Julio for what he’d tried to do to Eilis, or whether she’d thought she was protecting Rafael, that hamsa had not found its way into Julio’s pocket by mistake. It was planted.

  “Surely you can see that, Rafael,” Quinn whispered into the darkness.

  “I thought you’d be asleep,” Gabe said as he walked into the bedroom and shut the door behind him.

  “I couldn’t sleep, so I visited with Rafael,” Quinn replied. She tried to sound nonchalant, but Gabe must have heard the tremor in her voice.

  “What is it? What did you see?”

  “I saw the crucifixion, Gabe. Dear God, it was horrific. There are no words.”

  “Was it him?”

  Quinn shook her head. “No. He’s safe, for now. I can’t speak of it, Gabe. I just can’t,” Quinn said as she used the plastic bag to scoop the amulet off the bed without touching it. She dropped the bag onto the bedside table and stared at it, realizing that now that Rafael no longer had the hamsa, the story was at an end. She’d never find out what happened to him, never learn if he survived the siege or returned to Spain. And what of Aisling?

  “Come here,” Gabe said, pulling her into a warm embrace. “Forget about Rafael, at least for tonight. And forget about Jo.”

  “So, what should I remember?” Quinn asked playfully.

  “Remember how much you love me,” he whispered, his breath tickling her earlobe and shooting shivers of desire into her belly. “Remember how it feels when I touch you,” he continued, his fingers light as feathers as he touched her flushed face. “Remember how it feels when I’m inside you.”

  “I think you might need to remind me,” she said softly, her words hardly more than a sigh.

  “With pleasure,” Gabe replied as his lips brushed against her neck.

  “No, the pleasure will be all mine.”

  And it was. Quinn forgot all about Rafael and her perplexing sister as Gabe made love to her, slowly and tenderly. He took his time, kissing, stroking, teasing, and pleasing her until she was quivering like a bowl of jelly, her entire being centered around her core, which was still joined to him.

  Gabe rested his forehead against hers and smiled without opening his eyes. “All right?” he asked.

  “Mm,” she moaned.

  “Again?”

  “Got an early start. I have a meeting with Rhys.”

  Gabe opened his eyes, which were still clouded with desire, and kissed her softly. “Is that the call of the wild?”

  “What?” Quinn’s eyes flew open as a thin wail erupted from the baby monitor. “Right on cue,” she said, reluctantly slipping out of bed and pulling on her dressing gown.

  “Want me to get him?” Gabe asked, smiling at her lazily.

  “You got him last time. I don’t mind.”

  Quinn padded down the corridor to Alex’s room. He was wide awake, his round blue eyes staring accusingly from between the bars of his cot.

  “Come here, then,” Quinn said as she lifted the baby into her arms. “What’s the matter? Can’t sleep? Want some water?”

  Alex buried his nose in Quinn’s neck and wrapped his chubby arms around her. Quinn kissed the top of his head, inhaling his sweet baby smell. “Just wanted a cuddle, eh?” she crooned as she began to walk slowly from one side of the room to the other. “That’s right,” she whispered. “Go back to sleep.”

  Alex’s little body grew heavier as he began to drop off. Quinn carefully lowered herself into a rocking chair and held the baby close. “I’m so lucky to have you,” she whispered into his downy head. “I’m so blessed.”

  Quinn closed her eyes as she continued to rock. Was there anything in the world more wonderful than holding your sleeping baby after making love to your husband? she thought dreamily. To feel safe and loved, and to know you belong. Rafael’s dark, anxious eyes swam before her, jolting her out of her bubble of contentment. Would Rafael ever know that feeling? Would he live long enough to hold a child in his arms or lie with a woman who was his wife?

  “I’ll never know what became of him,” Quinn whispered into the silvery moonlight that bathed Alex’s room in an otherworldly glow.

  Chapter 59

  The moon was full and bright, hanging so low it skimmed the truncated tower of All Saints’ Church. Net curtains billowed at the open window. The pleasant breeze of the afternoon had turned into a brisk wind, and Jo pushed the window shut before sliding into her favorite corner of the sofa and folding her legs beneath her. She instantly unfolded them and sat up, all prim and proper, the way her father had made her sit when she was a child.

  You silly cow, she thought, and deliberately resumed her previous position, burrowing deeper into the cushions. The letter lay on the coffee table, a white rectangle that might as well have been an unexploded grenade. She had no illusions. This would not be a missive of love and forgiveness. This was her father’s last-ditch effort to chastise her, his final judgment.

  She reached for the envelope and held it suspended between two fingers, staring at the paper as if it might reveal a secret clue, but all the envelope informed her of was that the letter was for Quentin Crawford, aka Jo Turing, aka disappointment and failure, as a daughter, a sister, and a friend.

  Jo took a deep breath and tore the envelope open, pulling out a single sheet of paper. She laughed out loud when she unfolded the missive. It was type-written, signed at the bottom by her father. So typical of him. He couldn’t even bother to write the letter himself, make it more personal. With a hysterical giggle, she wondered if he’d had his secretary type it and then just put his signature to it, as if it were a letter to one of his
patients or the medical board. In a way, it was a blessing. Had her father handled the letter himself, Jo would feel a jolt when she picked it up, and experience all the emotions her father must have been feeling when he penned his final message. As it was, she felt no physical response, for which she was truly grateful.

  Get on with it, her inner voice said. You’re stalling.

  Yes, I am, Jo replied inwardly. Some things never change.

  She held the letter angled toward the window to capture the moonlight. She had no desire to turn on the light, preferring to read her father’s final words in the near darkness. Perhaps she was hiding—from him, from herself, possibly even from Quinn, damn her eyes. She was so perfect, so together. She was probably in bed with Gabe right now, sated after being thoroughly fucked. That man knew his way around a woman’s body, Jo was sure of it. What she wouldn’t give…

  Enough, the voice said. Just read the damn thing.

  Jo exhaled loudly and held the letter closer to her nose, her hand trembling as she began to read.

  August 17, 2009

  Dear Quentin,

  If you are reading this letter, then I’m dead and your conscience has finally woken from a lengthy slumber. I was beginning to think it was in a coma, but I never gave up hope and instructed Louis to give you this letter if you ever came asking about your child, the child you so blithely brought into this world to punish us all for our misdeeds. If you look at the date on the letter, you will understand the significance. Today is your daughter’s tenth birthday. She is well and happy, a bright spark in an otherwise dull world. How do I know that? I know because I’ve spent every Sunday with her for the past ten years.