by Matthew Carr
“What are you men doing?” he asked.
“Protecting our wives and children, Your Mercy,” one of the Moriscos replied.
“Did Dr. Segura tell you to do this?”
“No one told us. We heard what happened. It was decided among ourselves.”
“Well, you might do better to see that your families have food on the table rather than stand here spreading alarm for no purpose,” said Mendoza testily. “And if you want to protect your village, perhaps you might see that your people come forward and give me information instead of concealing it!”
Gabriel and the Moriscos looked equally taken aback by this outburst, and Mendoza rode slowly through the village, past small groups of men and women whose faces emanated the same suspicion and fear. He wanted to shout at them that he had not washed properly since leaving Zaragoza, that his clothes reeked of smoke and burned flesh, that he was sick of trying to coax information from a population that seemed determined to resist all his efforts. After a brief lunch in the tavern, he began to dictate the letter to Villareal in the village hall. They had barely begun when Franquelo returned and asked if the letter was ready.
To Gabriel’s surprise, Mendoza told Franquelo to sit down on the bench while he continued with the dictation. When they finished, he asked his page to read out the description of the massacre once again, glancing over at Franquelo as he did so. The alguacil showed no sign of emotion and sat staring grimly at the floor until Mendoza handed him the sealed letter.
“By the way,” Mendoza asked casually, “did you know if del Río was ever involved in any criminal activity?”
“He was suspected of smuggling horses,” Franquelo replied. “On one occasion the corregidor ordered me to keep his farm under observation for a few days. I did that, but I found no evidence of anything illegal.”
The constable’s face remained impassive. For the first time, Mendoza wondered if he was cleverer than he looked, because he had just lied without batting an eyelash, and if he could do it so easily to Mendoza, then he must have lied to Calvo as well, probably on more than one occasion. Mendoza was tempted to present him with the information that Ventura had brought back with him, but he did not want to draw any attention to his cousin’s current assignment in the mountains. Instead he sent Franquelo away and promised himself that he would subject him to more rigorous questioning as soon as his cousin returned.
• • •
NECKER AND VENTURA rode together to the point where the robbery had taken place, and the German then returned to Belamar with the Andalusian in tow, leaving Ventura to continue the rest of the journey on foot. He had an excellent memory for landscape and had no difficulty retracing his steps to the spot where he had seen the bandits emerge from the forest three days before. He took with him the same supplies he had once carried on similar solo reconnaissance missions in the Alpujarras: a small knapsack with a day’s worth of food, a few extra balls and powder for his pistols and a cape to use as a blanket. In addition to the pistols, sword and parrying dagger, he also carried a smaller knife in his boot and a crossbow, as well as a quiver stuffed with extra arrows draped around his shoulder.
The opening through the forest was not visible from a distance, but he soon located a wide natural pathway that led into a forest of towering oak and beech trees. At first it was easy to follow the trail the bandits had taken, from the broken branches, trampled vegetation and occasional articles of clothing or strips of material that they had dropped or discarded. After a while the tracks became less frequent, but the trail remained fairly obvious as the forest opened up into rockier and more inaccessible terrain, bisected by steep canyons, high cliffs and streams and mountain lakes that he was obliged to wade or jump across.
From the sun’s position, he calculated that he was moving northeast, away from Belamar toward Cardona and Vallcarca. He continued to keep himself concealed as much as possible, walking alongside or around the path that he thought the bandits had taken, but there were times when no tree or rock cover was available and he had to walk out in the open, uncomfortably conscious that he was visible to anyone who might be watching. By midday the sun was directly overhead and shade was scarce, and he was dripping sweat even after he’d discarded his leather doublet and stripped down to his shirt.
To keep himself cool, he wore a head scarf, which he periodically dipped in water, but it was hard-going in the heat without a horse, harder even than the Alpujarras had been. Whether it was because he was getting older or because he had spent too much time in Madrid taverns, his body felt heavy and stiff, and he stopped frequently to catch his breath. As always these signs of weakness irritated him and spurred him to walk even faster in an effort to overcome them. It was not until around two o’clock that he found himself walking in forest once again, and finally he decided to take advantage of the shade to eat something. He sat down with his back to a tree in a small clearing and ate some of the bread, figs and hard manchego cheese that Beatriz had given him. He smiled momentarily at the thought of her voluminous hips enveloping him as the priest’s bed creaked beneath them like a ship on a rough sea, when he heard the sudden scrabbling movement coming through the undergrowth toward him.
He drew his sword and crouched down in readiness as the boar came bursting out of the trees, snorting and grunting. It was a large animal, as large as any he had hunted. He barely had time to take in the stiff mud-covered hair, the long snout and wide tusks before it leaped toward him, and he rolled sideways and thrust the blade upward into its exposed throat. The animal squealed and collided with the tree before rolling over on its side. Ventura rammed the blade repeatedly into the writhing body until it finally lay motionless. He was still getting his breath back when a voice from behind him said, “Drop your sword and unbuckle your belt.”
He did as he was told, and the voice ordered him to drop the belt with the dagger and the two pistols and turn around slowly with his hands in the air. Ventura turned to find himself facing two men. The man who had spoken was sitting on a horse, holding the reins in one hand and a crossbow pointed at Ventura’s chest in the other. His companion had been riding pillion and now jumped to the ground beside him to hold a short broadsword at waist height. His hair was covered in a head scarf, and he held his weapon as though he knew how to use it, with his feet at the correct distance apart and his free arm stretched out to the side for balance. They might have been bandits or smugglers or both, Ventura thought, but they were certainly not shepherds. Already he was calculating the number of steps he would have to take, because he knew that neither of them could leave the forest alive and that everything would be decided within the next few minutes.
“Good day, gentlemen,” he said, slowing down his breathing to keep his mind clear.
“What are you doing here?” demanded the man with the crossbow.
“Hunting.” Ventura nodded at the bloody carcass.
“With pistols like these?” His companion bent and picked up one of the guns while keeping his own trained at a point just above Ventura’s groin. “These are gentlemen’s pistols,” he said. “Flintlocks, too.”
He held one of the pistols toward the man on the horse. In a single swift movement, Ventura reached down and drew the short dagger from his boot and pulled the swordsman toward him by his shirt, plunging the blade into his solar plexus. The swordsman barely let out a cry before he went limp, but Ventura continued to hold him upright, shielding himself from the dead man’s companion, who was circling around them trying to get off a shot with the crossbow. As soon as the arrow thwacked into the ground behind Ventura, he pushed the body away and stabbed the rider in his right thigh.
The horseman cried out in pain and tried to wheel the horse away, but Ventura was all over him now, pulling him down and stabbing him repeatedly. Even after the man was on the ground, Ventura continued to stab him until he, too, lay motionless. When Ventura looked up, the horse had bolted, and he heard it
crashing through the forest. He had no idea if there were any other men in the vicinity who might come looking for their companions, and he quickly dragged the two bodies out of sight and gathered up his weapons before hurrying away from the scene, half running and half walking till he came to a stream, where the horse had stopped to drink.
He removed its saddle and slapped its flank with the blade of his sword to send it back in the direction he had come from, then paused to wash his face and hands before continuing to follow the trail.
• • •
IN THE MIDAFTERNOON he saw the thin trail of smoke rising in the distance, and he took special care to avoid unwanted scrutiny, climbing and scrambling up rocks to avoid the obvious paths or crawling on all fours through more exposed areas. The smoke was coming from another forested slope on the other side of a wide valley, and he scanned the trees and rocks for pickets and sentries as he continued to walk parallel to a distinct and clearly well-used path till he heard the sound of cattle and human voices up ahead. He waited until it was nearly dark before continuing forward, weaving through the trees and crawling on his belly for the last few yards until he was looking out across a large clearing overlooking a stream.
Dozens of men were moving around in the dusk or sitting around campfires and primitive bivouacs made from branches, with pyramid-shaped stacks of weapons protruding outside them. He estimated that there were fifty or sixty of them altogether, including some women, in addition to horses, mules and grazing cattle. They did not seem to be concerned about being discovered, and there were no sentries that he could see. The only concessions to security were the large Pyrenean mountain dogs, which seemed more interested in the cattle than in any potential intruders.
At this point his mission had been accomplished. He had found the camp where the men who’d attacked the tailors’ carriage had come from, he knew how large it was, and all he had to do was retreat into the forest, retrace his steps the following day and make his way back to Belamar to pass this information on to his cousin. But as in Granada and many other places, success filled him with the same desire to go further and find out even more, the same desire that had led him to enter Purchena and the Morisco villages disguised as a Morisco and cross the picket lines of rebel camps in Flanders.
He waited until it was completely dark and then left his pack behind a tree to walk casually out into the clearing, with the crossbow tucked under his cloak. He moved without haste, adjusting his pace to the slow rhythm of the camp, keeping back from the campfires so that his face could not easily be seen.
Some of the men were sharpening knives and swords, others playing cards and dice. Many of them were drinking wine or brandy, and a few were clearly the worse for wear. Such behavior might equally have been found among bandits or rebels. Even the Moriscos of Granada sometimes drank alcohol, despite Aben Humeya’s strict orders, but unlike in Granada, here he heard no Arabic, only Spanish and a similar language that he guessed must be Aragonese. And the Moriscos of Granada had had officers and men who looked and acted like soldiers. He had just recognized some faces from the attack on the tailors, sitting by a fire a few yards away from him, when a stout little man crashed against him in the dark and would have fallen over had he not caught him.
“Thank you, brother!” The man giggled foolishly and offered him the open bottle. “Baltasar Plata is indebted to you, sir! Let’s drink to the Moriscos! May every last one of them burn in hell!”
“Hombre, you said it.” Ventura took a swig and handed it back to him. “The sooner the better.”
“God willing! I didn’t leave my flock for nothing.”
“You’re a shepherd, friend?” Ventura asked.
“I am. And there are more of us coming! We’re going to exterminate these infidels. And if we fuck some of their women first, who’s to say we didn’t deserve it!”
“Well, it’s one way to baptize them!” Ventura said.
The shepherd laughed so much he nearly fell over backward. Just then a tall bearded man in a black cap and wearing a pistol in his belt came toward them and shouted in an authoritative voice that the jefe wanted to speak to them all. Baltasar Plata lurched unsteadily toward the biggest campfire, and Ventura followed cautiously behind him. All around the campsite, men were converging on the same spot, until they were gathered in a large, unruly group in front of the fire, where a tall and better-dressed man in a broad hat, folded on one side, was standing on a log in front of the fire. Ventura saw the silver mace hanging from his belt and recognized the man who had led the attack on the tailors’ carriage as he raised his arms for silence.
“Has anyone seen Paco or El Mozo?” he asked. “They went out hunting this morning, and they haven’t come back to camp.”
“Probably too drunk to stay on their horses!” called one of the bandits.
“Gone whoring in Vallcarca!” shouted another.
The jefe raised his hand again, and the laughter abruptly ceased. “This isn’t a joke. Some of you are new to these mountains, but let me tell you that anyone who leaves camp or stays away without permission can expect punishment! If you ride with us, you carry out my orders! Is that understood?”
The Catalan nodded with satisfaction as his listeners murmured their assent. “Now, I know that some of you montañeses have been wondering why you left your flocks,” he went on. “You came here to fight Moriscos, and you haven’t been doing it. Well, tomorrow some of you will get your chance. Tomorrow, like the Cid’s, your blades will drink infidel blood! For Spain and Saint James!”
All around him Ventura heard whoops and cheers of approval, and some members of the camp raised swords and fists and echoed back the Moorslayer’s name. The Catalan was just explaining that only half the camp would be required and that he would be selecting them first thing the next morning when Ventura noticed a man standing in the entrance to a large bivouac observing the proceedings. The bivouac was set so far back that his face could not be seen, and it was only because one of the bandits behind the Catalan raised his torch to cheer that Ventura even made him out at all. Ventura was about to move around the group to get a better look at him when he was dazzled by a torch directly in front of his face.
“Son of a whore, I thought it was you!”
Ventura recognized the triumphant face of the smuggler Rapino, whose horse he had taken only three days before, and he knew he was in trouble.
“This cabrón is an alguacil!” Rapino shouted. “Hold him!”
Ventura drew one of his pistols and shot the smuggler in the stomach, then lashed out with the barrel as one of Rapino’s companions tried to grasp his sleeve. All around the camp, men were swarming like angry bees as he ran as fast as he could from the shouts and barking dogs and into the forest.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
aron Vallcarca normally enjoyed spending the summer at his father-in-law’s country house outside Huesca. The house and its gardens were large enough for him to keep the necessary distance from his wife and children and close enough to Huesca and Jaca for him to see the women he preferred to see. His father-in-law also owned a hunting lodge, where he was able to receive them at a discreet distance from the house itself. Some summers he spent half the week hunting while his servants passed messages and letters back and forth and made the necessary arrangements. If his wife had any idea who came and went, she never gave any indication of it, and in any case she knew better than to visit him there without permission or to ask him questions about how he spent his time.
Her father had long since ceased to ask anyone questions about anything. He was almost senile and spent his days sitting on the terrace gazing out at his orchards or taking baby steps around the garden with the help of one of his servants. Every time the baron saw him, he hoped that it would be the last, and each summer he was always mildly surprised and disappointed to find the old man still sitting on the patio with the blanket on his legs, still smiling the same half-witted
smile.
The old man sat beside him now, gazing out across the fountain and the lemon trees toward the setting sun with an expression of blissful serenity that might have been admirable in a saint but in Vallcarca’s father-in-law’s case merely confirmed his disintegration into a simpleton. Vallcarca did not feel serene himself as he looked beyond the lemon and orange trees toward the spreading sunset that lit up the horizon like a forest fire. He watched the carriage and its escort approach the entrance beyond the rows of eucalyptus trees, and his jaw tightened with anger at the sight of his eldest son riding among them.
As the carriage and horsemen came closer, the baron saw that his son was accompanied by his servants, and long before he saw the wide mouth and fleshy lips, he could hear him braying like a donkey.
“Matilde!” he called. “They’re here! Tell the servants.”
Vallcarca’s father-in-law looked at him with vague curiosity as the baron’s wife obediently came out of the house, accompanied by three servants, and adjusted the blanket on his lap. Vallcarca took her arm, and they went down the stairs to await their guests. A few moments later, the carriage came to a halt and one of the riders dismounted and opened the door for the Marquis of Espinosa.
Vallcarca considered himself to be a keen judge of human nature, even though his view of humanity was essentially predatory and concerned with whom he might be able to dominate and who might be a threat to him. He had recognized immediately that Licenciado Mendoza belonged to the latter category. The father of the late Count of Cardona was another matter. Even his letters carried the faint whiff of perfume and talcum powder, and it was much stronger in the flesh. A man who smelled like a woman would always bend to the will of a stronger man. Even his soft hands conveyed the malleability of an aristocrat who had spent too much time gambling in the Houses of Conversation in Toledo and Madrid and was too weak to recognize when his vice had become a sickness that was destroying him. And it was precisely his sickness that made him useful, Vallcarca thought as he gripped the older man’s boneless white hand and smiled at him.