The Devils of Cardona

by Matthew Carr

  “Marquis. How good of you to come. It’s been a long time.”

  “It has indeed, Baron. And what a pleasant surprise to find my future son-in-law on the same road.”

  Vallcarca bowed slightly and ignored his son’s complicit smirk as Espinosa kissed his wife’s hand.

  “You must be tired, Don Alfonso. My servants will show you to your room. When you’ve refreshed yourself, come down to the drawing room and we can discuss the happy matter that most concerns us.”

  “It will be a pleasure, sir.”

  Vallcarca waited until his wife and servants had disappeared with Espinosa and his entourage. It was only then that he looked at his son.

  “Come inside,” he ordered.

  Rodrigo’s smile immediately vanished, and he looked wary now as he followed Vallcarca past his father-in-law into the drawing room.

  “Well?” Vallcarca demanded.

  “It was done as you asked, sir. But there was one minor difficulty.”

  Vallcarca looked at him.

  “One of the alcalde’s men was in the camp.”

  “Did they catch him?”

  “No. But they will. In any case he didn’t see me.”

  “What makes you so sure?” Vallcarca had his back to his son now and casually picked up a leather whip from a table and began winding it around his hand so that the handle was protruding like a club.

  Rodrigo’s smirk returned. “Because I didn’t reveal myself. He couldn’t—”

  Vallcarca swung around and struck his son a vicious blow across the face with the leather handle. Rodrigo yelped and held up his hands to protect himself, but his father now began to flail at his head and shoulders till he dropped to his knees and covered his head with both hands. Finally Vallcarca stopped and stood panting over his son, who looked at him with an expression of pain and fury.

  “I didn’t know he was going to be there!” Rodrigo wailed.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you tried to fight Mendoza?”

  “I didn’t think it was important!”

  “You didn’t think it was important,” Vallcarca repeated disgustedly. “You threatened one of the king’s judges! He could have arrested you, and that would have drawn attention to me, which I don’t want! But you didn’t think of that, did you? Were you at the farm, too?”

  “Of course. To see that the work was done well.”

  “I don’t need you to do that, boy. What if you’d been seen there? From now on you don’t go anywhere without my orders and you do not exceed them. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.” A red weal was beginning to appear on Rodrigo’s face.

  “Good,” Vallcarca said. “Now, get out of my sight.”

  • • •

  THE DAY AFTER THE MASSACRE, the town crier informed the population of Belamar that Her Excellency the Countess of Cardona had invited anyone who wished to pray for the souls of the murdered family to attend a special Mass at her own church the following Sunday. Mendoza had already resolved to go to church in one of the villages, but he decided to go to Cardona instead. That morning Segura’s two sons unexpectedly brought a wooden tub into the kitchen and boiled a pot of water on the fire so that he and Gabriel were finally able to bathe. Afterward Juana came and took away their dirty clothes, and later that afternoon they came back from another visit to the del Río farm to find those clothes dried and neatly folded.

  On Sunday morning, he woke feeling clean and surprisingly rested. Gabriel polished his shoes and brushed off the ruff that he’d brought with him, which had just about retained its shape. Necker had also managed to brush himself down till he looked almost presentable, and they left the two militiamen to maintain an official presence and made their way toward Cardona. On the road they passed dozens of Moriscos, including Segura and all his children. Most were on foot and had set out early to get there in time. Others rode mules and horses or sat in carts dressed in their best clothes.

  By the time they arrived, a large crowd was already gathered around the entrance to the church, and they left their animals with one of the hostlers and went inside. Like its exterior, the inside of the church was considerably grander than the church in Belamar, with an elaborate gilt retablo depicting scenes from the Passion, and carved wooden benches for the choir, and thick stone pillars and high walls lined with statues, shrines and chapels, decorated with gold and silver and fine bas-reliefs of martyred saints. Most of the benches were already filled, and extra chairs had been brought in, but soon these were also taken, and many of the congregants were forced to stand. The front bench had been left empty, and a murmur spread through the congregation when the countess appeared in the doorway, accompanied by her daughter, Carolina, together with the bailiff Sánchez, Susana and two other servants.

  Mendoza turned to watch as she dipped her hand in the baptismal font and made the sign of the cross. She was wearing a long hooded cloak that reached from head to toe, and she pushed the hood back to reveal a black widow’s manto that left only her mouth exposed. As she entered the church, the poorer Moriscos crowded around her with expressions of devotion and supplication, and some of the older women kissed the hem of her cloak before the countess continued to walk down the aisle with her gaze fixed firmly on the altar and the cross.

  This was the first Mass that Mendoza had been to since leaving Valladolid and the first that he had attended since Granada in which so many congregants were Moriscos. Most of them seemed attentive and joined in the prayers and responses as if they knew them. Others looked more uncertain and seemed to be merely mouthing the words or copying what others were saying. It was impossible to tell from their outward appearance whether they really believed in what they were hearing or whether they were only pretending to, but the same could be said of many Old Christians or of the criminals he had arrested and punished in Valladolid who went to Mass every Sunday and confessed to their most recent sins before committing new ones.

  Piety, like virtue, was not always detectable from the outside, he thought, and even its visible manifestations could not always be taken at face value. In Valladolid there were women who went to church and sighed as if they were fit to swoon in order to impress their neighbors; there were shady lawyers who ostentatiously went to receive Communion and seemed to assume that merely being seen to receive the sacrament was enough to cleanse their reputations as well as their souls. Mendoza had no doubt that the countess was sincere, however, as he watched her lips moving beneath the manto and the rapt attention that she brought to every part of the service.

  The theme of Father García’s sermon was reconciliation and forgiveness. He quoted from 1 John 2:11: “for he that hateth his brother is in darkness, and walketh in darkness, and knoweth not whither he goeth, because that darkness hath blinded his eyes” and exhorted Old and New Christians in the congregation to come together in the love of Jesus Christ and reject the hatred that had now manifested itself in such a terrible form at the del Río farm.

  Mendoza doubted that the message would have any impact on those responsible for the massacre, but the countess’s fervent attention suggested that she genuinely believed it might. She exuded the same humility, sincerity and innocence when she walked toward the altar and knelt down to take Communion with her head bowed. After the service he came out onto the steps to find her dispensing coins to the beggars who hovered around the entrance. In Valladolid pious ladies of high degree generally avoided contact with the humbler inhabitants of the city even during Holy Week, but the countess appeared to treat both the poorest and the better-off congregants with equal consideration.

  She seemed particularly keen to speak to the relatives of victims of the massacre, and he watched her take the hand of an elderly Morisca whose daughter had been married to Gonzalo del Río and been killed at the farm and murmur words of comfort and condolence in her ear. Mendoza wanted to pay his respects, but so many people clustered aroun
d her that it was difficult to find the right moment. She also spent some time in conversation with Segura, who seemed to be doing most of the talking. At one point she glanced in Mendoza’s direction, and he was just about to approach her when she turned away and walked back toward the palace with her retinue. Even though he did not generally stand on the dignity of his office, he felt put out by her indifference and told Gabriel to give a coin to the hostler as he prepared to leave. He was just about to mount his horse when Sánchez came walking briskly across the square toward them and announced that his mistress wished to see him at the palace in half an hour.

  • • •

  MENDOZA DECIDED to take Gabriel with him. They left Necker in the square and walked over to the palace, where a servant ushered them into the salon. The countess was seated on a sofa, with the bailiff sitting opposite her and another servant standing by the door. She had dispensed with the cloak and the manto, and she was wearing a severe black dress with a high-button collar topped by a white lace frill that completely covered her neck up to her chin. Her hair was drawn back over her forehead and piled high into a crown, which was held in place by a tortoiseshell peineta.

  Close up she looked paler than when he had last spoken to her, and there were shadows around her eyes. Gabriel was instantly in awe of her, but he managed a surprisingly accomplished and almost courtly bow. One of the servants pulled up two chairs, and the countess dispatched his companion to bring them cakes and chocolate.

  “Thank you for coming to Mass today, Licenciado,” she said. “Your presence was much appreciated.”

  “As was yours, my lady. The Mass was well attended.”

  “That is cause for hope. As Father García said, we must all work together to see that these horrors are not repeated.”

  “Indeed.”

  “And are you any closer to making any arrests?”

  Both the countess and the bailiff were watching him intently. Mendoza did not generally discuss the progress of investigations with outsiders, and he was even less inclined to do so when the investigation was not going well. It was only two days since he had received a letter from Villareal asking him the same question. The counselor’s impatience was obvious even in a dictated letter, and news of the massacre was not likely to placate him.

  “My men and I have been somewhat caught up in the events of the last two days,” he said, “but we are pursuing certain lines of inquiry.”

  These were the identical words he had written to Villareal. It was a useful expression to use at a time when the investigation was effectively stalled and dependent on the random or unexpected event that could take it forward, but the countess did not seem impressed by it, and the pale blue eyes continued to look at him expectantly until he found himself saying, “It’s possible that the massacre was carried out by montañeses in revenge for the murders of the Quintana brothers. My officers will be visiting some of their villages next week.”

  “I understand that you went to Vallcarca,” she said. “It was good of you to do that. Less diligent officials would not have made the effort. They would simply have accepted what they were told.”

  “Are you suggesting that the three Moriscos are not guilty?” he asked.

  “I don’t believe they are.”

  “The baron thinks otherwise. He believes that Vicente Péris may be the Redeemer.”

  “Well, of course he does,” she said scornfully. “And what was your impression of the master of Vallcarca?”

  Once again Mendoza did not think his opinion of the baron was any of the countess’s business. But it seemed impossible to refuse the intense blue eyes without seeming churlish.

  “His reputation for severity is clearly justified.”

  The countess let out a humorless laugh. “The baron is indeed severe! Vallcarca does not know the meaning of pity or mercy. I understand you met his son, too. Do you think that Rodrigo Vallcarca would make a suitable lord of Cardona?”

  “First impressions would suggest that he would not, my lady. And now I would like to ask you a question: What makes you so certain that the three Moriscos would not have attacked those women?”

  “I’ve told you I know my Moriscos,” she said. “And I knew all three men. Navarro and his apprentice did work here on the palace. And Vicente Péris is one of the finest wood-carvers in these mountains. He has worked on churches all over Cardona and in France. He spent two months living with us after he returned from the galleys, because I commissioned work from him to help his family. Did you see the angels in our choir gallery? They were carved by him. Vicente Péris is a pious man who fears and loves God. Is that not so, Jean?”

  “Indeed, my lady,” replied the bailiff. “He often spoke to Father García about matters of faith when he worked at the church. I remember he was very curious about the Trinity and the Resurrection.”

  “Yet he was punished by the Inquisition for insulting the Virgin and denying the Immaculate Conception,” Mendoza pointed out.

  “The evidence against him came from Panalles,” said the bailiff. “The priest wanted his wife, and Péris punched him and knocked him down when he tried to take her. So Panalles took revenge. Péris was in prison for nine months during the trial and interrogation. He has walked with a limp ever since.”

  “Which might give him a very strong motive to seek revenge against any members of the Church, including Panalles,” Mendoza suggested.

  “I promise you that Péris did not kill Panalles, and he did not attack those nuns,” the countess insisted. “Someone else is behind this. Did you know that Vallcarca has gone to Huesca?”

  “Yes. He told me he goes every year to see his father.”

  “Did he also tell you that he invited my father-in-law to meet him there?”

  “He didn’t. Is there any reason he should?”

  “The Marquis of Espinosa has no business with the baron unless it has to do with me.”

  “Can I ask how you knew that your father-in-law was in Huesca, my lady?”

  “Just because I am a woman, I am not entirely without resources,” she said. “I am not as powerless as either my father-in-law or the baron believes.”

  “Assuming that what you say is true, what would Vallcarca gain through the crimes that we have witnessed?”

  “He wants to terrify me into accepting Rodrigo Vallcarca as a husband! To show that I am incapable of running my estates.”

  Mendoza sipped his chocolate as she described the deteriorating situation in the señorio. There had been three murders in the past week in various parts of the señorio, in addition to those he already knew about. In the last two days, she had received reports from the bailiff and other officials of violent altercations between Moriscos and Old Christians in which both the rapes in Vallcarca and the murders of the del Río family had been mentioned. Only that morning some of her Moriscos had asked her to use the militia to protect them. Some Old Christians had appealed to Vallcarca to become his vassals, and others had written to the king asking to become vassals of the Crown in order to receive royal protection.

  “Do you have any evidence that the baron or your father-in-law is behind these events?” Mendoza asked.

  “Of course not. These are powerful men. They would never do anything that could incriminate themselves directly.”

  Mendoza was not indisposed to be sympathetic toward her. Vallcarca was clearly a brute, and the mistress of Cardona was infinitely more appealing, both physically and morally. There were already enough anomalies in the investigation to suggest that the countess’s accusations against Vallcarca and her father-in-law were superficially plausible. But without proof her allegations were nothing more than opinion and speculation, and it was also possible that she herself might be trying to use him for purposes that were not yet obvious.

  “Well, my lady, I shall certainly give due consideration to what you’ve told me in the course of my
investigation,” he said finally.

  “Thank you, Licenciado. By the way, I thought you should know that Dr. Segura and I have arranged for the bodies of the del Río family to be buried in the village of Las Palomas. It’s about halfway between Belamar and Cardona. Segura says there isn’t enough wood for the coffins in Belamar, and now that Navarro has been arrested, there’s only one carpenter. Father García will conduct the funeral service the day after tomorrow. You are welcome to attend.”

  This news surprised Mendoza. He had left the burial of the bodies to the Moriscos themselves and assumed that they would be buried in the town cemetery. It was only now he realized that he had not observed any signs of preparation for burial or even heard a carpenter’s hammer in Belamar itself. He said that he would do his best to attend, and the two of them finished their chocolate and got up to leave. Necker had brought the horses up to the palace, and they rode slowly toward Belamar, past the Moriscos who were still making their way on foot.

  “So what did you think of our countess?” Mendoza asked Gabriel.

  “She has a face like an angel,” his awestruck page replied.

  “Indeed she does.”

  Mendoza listened with amusement to Gabriel’s extravagant praise of the countess’s beauty and saintliness. He was not inclined to disagree, but he couldn’t shake off the suspicion that she was concealing something from him and that it had something to do with the conversation she’d had with Segura earlier.

  It was not until Belamar appeared ahead of them that he realized that she might inadvertently have given him a way to find out what it was.

  • • •